The Sound of Silence
by hawkeye-pierce08
Summary: Jack is different from everybody else. What is not so obvious though, is that he's fooled the entire town since he was seven years old. But Grissom is on to him, and nothing is as it seems. Mild Language, please R&R!
1. Prologue: Hello darkness, my old friend

Prologue-Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

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I didn't choose to be like this. It wasn't my fault. Nor was it anybody else's. It just sort of...happened.

If I went to a psychiatrist, and told them my life story, they would say I had what is known as 'elective mutism'. I did research and it means that I'll only talk in certain places that I'm comfortable in. Let me make it clear right now that that's a load of bull.

I don't talk to anyone.

I mean, I'm not saying that I can't, I just don't like talking to people. I've learned from experience that talking only gets me into trouble. I'd tell you all about it, but then we'd be here for awhile.

People call me Jack. Just Jack. I didn't choose it. I'm sure my mom didn't choose it. I don't remember who gave it to me. It appeared out of thin air when I really think about it.

Around here, Jack (that's me) gets blamed for everything. A window gets broken, Jack did it. Something goes missing, Jack took it. Sometimes it's a curse and a blessing. For instance, I don't have to answer to really stupid questions. On the other hand, I obviously can't stick up for myself. See where I'm getting at?

You know, it's kind of funny when people think that just because you don't talk, you can't hear them. When people walk up to me and start talking really loud, it takes a lot not to laugh. But by this method I've learned more about the town than anybody else.

That's right. I've learned all the good stuff people are too ashamed for anybody else to know. For instance, who's screwing who, who's kid made the varsity football team yesterday, which ex-Beatle was on the Simpson's last Saturday (Bet you didn't know I like rock'n'roll, did you?), that sort of junk.

I remember almost as if it was yesterday the day I officially became 'deaf'. I was around 7 years old and already living on my own. I went by Joe's every Tuesday for something to eat at about 6 o'clock in the evening. On this particular Tuesday, Joe wasn't standing at the counter waiting for me.

I went searching for him, like my little toddler instincts told me. It's strange the way that little kids seem to know how everything works. From the mouth of babies comes wisdom, some say. But not from mine.

I followed the counter all the way into the kitchen, where I saw Joe sitting slumped over in a chair. My little body froze for a second. I thought he was dead or something like that. I lost track of how long it took for me to walk over to him. Must have been at least a minute or two.

I stood next to him and just stared. What would you expect me to do? I was a little 4'2" kid who weighed about 50 pounds. Joe's thumb alone could squash me like a fly. You can't expect me to try and move him.

Anyways, I reached out with my little finger and tapped his shoulder. Time seemed to falter for a moment. I kept staring at him. Waiting for him to do something.

All of a sudden, he lurched up, taking in this great breath, as he put his hand over his eyes, wiping away the tears. He tried to chuckle but you could tell there was a hint of hurt in it. My heart stopped beating for that split second. He scared me so much I fell over and landed on my backside.

"Hehe, sorry Jackie. I should've known you were here," he said as he slipped the ring off his finger and examined it. Joe was a pretty tall guy, probably in his forties. He had a scar on the right side of his face, like a cat scratch or something. He always wore the ring on his right hand, on the finger next to his pinky. This was the only time I saw it off. After this, I never saw it again.

I didn't know what to do after that. I must've stood there, looking like an idiot, for at least five minutes. It finally clicked that something was up with his wife. He would later be put in the paper for committing suicide by way of shotgun thanks to it.

The one thing about Joe's Parlor is that there's an annoying-as-hell bell on the front counter. Sometimes when people are in a rush they get a bit trigger happy with it. There were times when I felt like throwing it against the wall just to get the sadistic pleasure of listening to the bell go 'ding' as the outside shatters in pieces. I have a rich fantasy life.

Somebody outside the kitchen started ringing the stupid thing over and over. I didn't feel much like turning around to see who it was, my brain was too focused on the way he was twisting the ring on his finger.

Joe looked up and stared at me staring back at him. He looked as if he knew I'd been lying about something this whole time and any minute I would crack under the pressure. To be totally honest, I almost did, until he spoke up.

"Hmm...I didn't know you were deaf, kiddo. I just thought you were being quiet on me. Give me a few minutes, kid, and I'll be back."

As he got up and left me there by myself in a kitchen full of hazardous pizza rollers, I thought about something, odd as it may seem. If people thought that you can't listen to them, then they'll say anything and everything without a second thought. It was the most brilliant plan since...since...since the invention of ice cream or something. (No really, I did think of that.)

From that moment on, I was deaf to the world around me. Well, almost. About a year after that, two days before my birthday, the police came and stuck me in the Bethany Christian Services Adoption Agency. Plucked right out of Joe's place. I don't know how he knew I was an orphan. I don't know who he called. In fact, I don't really know much beyond that point.

Since then, I've been in and out of three families, up until I was 18. The first time I was adopted was when I was almost nine, by a family who had no idea about raising a kid with a 'disability'. But they tried, and I'll commend them for that much. The second was by widow who had lost her daughter to a fire. The most she wanted was to hear her son laugh, but I couldn't give even that to her. I beat myself up for it all the time.

The third was the toughest. Not family wise, more like outside the home. I was fourteen when the Murray's adopted me. Both my parents had one thing in common with me. They were deaf too.

Actually, I had fun while I was there. It was from there that I started going to the library every week at closing time and listened to a scratchy Beatles album as I finished 'Don Quixote'. The librarian always played them as she locked up the place, as she figured it wouldn't bother me. In truth it didn't, but be forewarned, the Beatles have nothing to do with this (you Charlie Manson psychos).

Communication was easy, despite what you're thinking. BCSAA took me to any available signing class within the area. The language itself was easy to 'speak', but 'listening' to it was the hard part. Quickly got over that dilemma. Had to, actually.

The Murray's names were Alice and Dave. Alice had a sandy blonde color hair, with green eyes, which I loved to stare at. She liked to write books, and even had a few published, but they never made it big. Once, I gave her a copy of 'Alice in Wonderland' and she nearly broke down crying. I never did understand why.

Dave was almost an exact opposite. He had jet black hair, and always wore a five o'clock shadow. He was a little taller than Alice, and loved to do nothing more than watch NASCAR. When I was fifteen we built a Soapbox Derby car and raced in the local, but never won. That was good times, building the stupid hunk of fiberglass.

School was awful. I hated going to school about as much as I liked getting my teeth extracted without the anesthesia. There was always this kid who thought it was funny to pick on me and shout behind my back, trying to get me to jump. When I think about it, it was good practice for the useful times I was supposed to freak out when the fire alarm went off.

Well, that's my life story, up until I get in trouble. All the trouble with the law happened when I was 17, a week before my 18th birthday. Now remember, when a person is 18, they're tried as an adult in court. That knowledge will come in handy in future chapters.

Sometimes life's frustrating, and I just want to scream.

Scream bloody murder.

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Well, what'd you think? Don't worry, the actually CSI stuff comes in next (or somewhere down the line). Oh yeah, if you want info about either the BCSAA or the All-American Soapbox Derby, contact me. No, you will not find 'Jack' in either of them.


	2. 1: I've come to talk with you again

Chapter One-I've come to talk with you again

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The day that I was arrested was probably one of the weirdest in my entire life (that and the day that I almost got laid). I remember it was a Tuesday, and I had just gotten home from school. I usually take the bus or ride my bike (which, by the way, has been stolen 3 and a half times), but today was different. I felt it in my bones. I needed every excuse not to go home.

So, I decided to walk. I haven't walked home in a long time. Although my legs were still burning from baseball practice on Friday, it was a pretty decent day in the beginning of March, and a Vegas spring was beginning to settle over everything (yeah, and I have a dog named Lassie that saved Mr. Johnson from a fire). It was kind of like what George Harrison said about his 'Sun' song, something like spring lasts so long that by the time summer rolls around you feel like you actually deserved it.

As I walked along, I was thinking of how funny everybody was acting that entire day. Actually, it wasn't that funny. I mean, if a kid at your school is murdered paranoia is soon to follow. I was trying to figure out what the big friggin' deal was, really. Tyler was a jerk, why should anybody care if he lived or died? I'll bet the guy descended from Hitler or some other maniacal dictator.

The weirdest part was that everybody was avoiding me more than usual. Just a glance and they would almost cower. At some points it felt good, but it was twisting my brain. What the hell did I do now? I can't remember doing it. And if I did do it, I was probably stoned at the time (but I never actually....yeah), so what do you want me to do?

I turned the corner leading to the apartment and instantly the air changed. Tension built up so quickly I forgot to breath. I stopped and stared down the street to figure out why my brain just turned hazy. The idea that I was psychic passed through my mind, but that was forgotten. A car rounded the corner behind me, but I didn't look. Probably just a neighbor or something.

It wasn't. A cop car. LVFBI slapped right on the side. I took off down the street after it as fast as my legs would carry me. Screw how much my legs hurt, I had to get home. What if something happened to Alice or Dave? For the record, I was a fast little shit back then. Now, I can't run to save my life. Too bad Tyler couldn't either.

I'm pretty sure the cop was a bit freaked out by a teenager running at full blast in his side mirror. That doesn't happen everyday. My face was beginning to turn red as a beet while I was running. I looked like I had stared at the sun for a good three hours or so.

I followed the car to its destination. I froze in my tracks and nearly tripped from the sudden stop upon seeing where the car was going. My apartment. 3G. Why does this stuff always happen to me?

I'll bet just about anything except my bike and copy of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde that God is an annoying kid with a magnifying glass standing over a bunch of ants and frying them as they work their way back home. God and I are a lot alike actually. I get a sadistic pleasure from watching a bell shatter, God gets a sadistic pleasure from watching people go through emotional guilt trips. I know, the truth hurts.

The cop got out of the car, along with two other guys. One sat in back, while the other rode shotgun. I love that term. Shotgun. Fun times, right there. All three were 6 feet of pure muscle in blue shirts and black ties. I was reminded of how Joe looked like a giant when I was seven. They could easily squash me like I was an atom.

As the cop adjusted his belt, he gave me a funny look, begging to ask the question _Are you mentally unstable, kid?_ Well, for his information, yes I am mentally unstable at the moment. When a cop car shows up at your house you would be too, wouldn't you? The other dudes didn't even give me so much as a glance.

The last one to get out of the car rang the doorbell. About now, Dave would be watching whatever race was on the television, only to be interrupted by the light flashing above the TV. Alice would be cooking something over the stove for me whenever I got home. I have their habits down pat or whatever the saying is.

I waited for the door to open in almost pure terror. What was taking them so long? God, whatever I did to piss you off, forgive me and all that other junk you never actually do. Dave, answer the damn door already. Please? For me?

While I was waiting, I noticed how much alike the cops looked. Blue shirts, black ties, black pants, dark crew cut hair, and practically the same jaw line. They looked like clones of each other.

As my brain got lost in thought, Alice was the one who opened the door. Dave must've been asleep or something. He always sleeps a little before he goes to work. Great time to choose, Dave, thanks for sending me down another emotional roller coaster. I remembered to breath again. But wait, I can't go inside. I gotta collect my thoughts.

Okay, so why would the police be at my house? Maybe my 'grandparents' died or Dave's brother is back in jail for something. Maybe I've just inherited 16.8 million dollars and I am the sole benefactor and must move on up to Beverly Hills to claim my long lost fortune. Maybe they found my mother or some relative that I didn't know that I had.

I sat down on an electric box partly concealed in the bushes. What was I gonna do? I could keep running until nightfall, only to get lost and eaten by a wild boar. Or I could go in, see what the problem was, and get everything off my chest. Which was it going to be? Personally, I would've chosen the being-eaten-alive-by-wild-boars scenario.

But, obviously I couldn't just up and leave. Like my real parents.

Wasn't it Dave who was always saying I should be a man and face my fears (thanks to his advice I got a black eye and a missing tooth for that one) and all that other fatherly advice?

I took a deep breath and stood up. My knees almost buckled underneath me. Maybe I wasn't ready to go in yet. Maybe I'm worse than Felix the Cat, and afraid of everything. Christ, I sound like I'm in the military or something. This isn't Desert Storm or anything. It's just your house. Nothing scary about a house, right? Right?!

As I walked up to the front door, I was reminded of another Beatles tune, called 'Hey Jude'. It was kind of like an advice column for John Lennon's kid. One of the lines went 'Hey Jude...Don't be afraid...' or something. That little bit got stuck in my brain and just kept on repeating itself over and over. The record player in my brain started to skip.

I stopped with my hand on the door knob and it jiggled a little bit. That knob needed a fix sometime. I thought my life was flashing before my eyeballs. A whole year probably passed while I was standing there like an idiot. Things were happening in slow motion.

The door knob rattled again, but this time I didn't do it. The knob must be possessed (Jinkies!!). I let go and the door swung open. One of the Cop-Triplets looked at me for a second, searching for something. The door was held in his right hand, and his left thumb was in his left pocket. Dangerously close to a set of cuffs.

He stepped back allowing me inside. Since when did I need an invitation to my own house? I live here too, ya know. Well, maybe I don't. Maybe they have found my parents after all. More than likely not. About as much chance of that happening as trees growing feet and walking away (hey, give me a minute, and I'll fix that).

I walked the two steps up the 'porch' like I was walking to my death. I could faintly hear the words 'Dead Man Walking' behind me. Maybe the creepy cop clone said it. I dunno. I'm dunno a whole lot at the moment.

I distinctly remember somebody asking me 'Are you Jack Murray?' but I didn't turn to face whoever said it. Another habit you develop after awhile. I looked over and Alice, who was sitting on the couch with her face in her hands, and Dave was hugging her and all that junk you see in the movies. He looked almost disappointed.

I couldn't look away from him. It was the first time that I could remember at the moment when he looked almost sad for me. It scared me. Something was wrong. A bajillion thoughts ran through my mind again. Maybe I could bolt? Nah, then they'd find me. Maybe I could go quietly? Nah, then I'd be tortured for every ounce of information that I didn't have. What to do, what to do?

I felt a hand on my shoulder and my senses were brought back. I tensed up and tried to shake it off, but another hand grabbed my arm. I struggled as hard as I could against 600 pounds of force. The bag on my back swung around and knocked one of the dudes elbows. Wonderful sound elbows and physics books make when they meet. Perfect harmony. Almost like 'Twist and Shout'.

The struggle lasted a few more seconds, but it felt almost like an eternity. How long was I fighting off these guys? One minute? Two? Ten? When was the fight over? Somebody had to give up eventually. Who's it going to be?

All of a sudden I thought I heard my shoulder pop and mind-bending pain ripped up my arm. Those bastards must've broken it or something. I can't really explain what happened next. Somebody screamed. A creepy scream, like the one you hear in 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame' (1939 version) when Quasimodo thinks Esmerelda was murdered or something. A hoarse scream, like it was stuck in a musty closet for years.

Was it me?

My whole body fell forward as I heard one the dudes yell at another 'Now look what you did?! Our asses are canned now, thanks to you!' My knees finally hit the floor, and I heard another pop. The pain was gone! It wasn't broken, just out of place. Christ almighty if they do that again, they'll have reason to hang me for murder. That hurt like hell.

I decided to just give up the rest of the fight. What was the use anyways? Probably just a couple more broken bones or something. Beads of sweat were starting to sting my eyeballs. I felt the handcuffs wrap around my wrist and to be honest, the cold metal or whatever the hell it's made out of actually felt good. My body felt like it was burning or something. Did somebody fiddle with the thermostat?

They walked (and half carried) me out of the house. I needed some sleep. I dunno how I would be able to sleep for the next week. The neighbors probably weren't too happy about this. Alice and Dave were already shunned enough, I'm pretty sure they didn't need any more criticism, especially from the old hag across the street who always looked out the window at use when we're outside. Freaky lady.

The back of a police car is no place you want to be in. It's hot, and the leather doesn't help. You obviously can't buckle a belt or anything, so a bumpy ride is going to be painful. Luckily it wasn't for me, so you're on your own. There's a plastic shield separating the two front seats, where two of the three clones sat. The other sat next to me. I dunno why though. Maybe just bored.

I stared out the window, and looked at the trees. Picture yourself on a boat on a river, with tangerine trees, and marmalade skies... My head slumped against the window and I fell asleep for the rest of the ride.

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Well, that's numero uno. By the way, about my name being in a review: a friend of mine had to borrow it to post their own review, so they used mine. No biggie. EVERYBODY MUST REVIEW!! If you don't, I shall be sad. And you don't want to make me sad. (Because then I turn into a depressed version of the Hulk) It's not fun. See ya in number two!


	3. 2: Because a vision softly creeping

Chapter 2: Because a vision softly creeping...

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Gil Grissom woke up with a start. It was that dream again. The one about when his father came home for awhile when he turned 10. He hated his father. Sometimes more than life itself.

Every night it went the same way. A tall man walked through the doorway with a gigantic green suitcase in his arms. The man spotted him and smiled. Gil didn't like that smile. It wasn't a smile that most kids get from their fathers. It was one of hate.

Then his mother waltzed down the steps. His father, who's name was Roy, dropped the case with a thunk that shook the floor underneath Grissom's feet. He had the feeling that he had to get out of the house. Go away. The sleeping Grissom tried to tell the dream Grissom to leave, but he could only watch.

The whole thing switches over to a number of months later. Gilly (as Grissom was called then) was slightly taller, and a thick set of glasses were placed over his eyes. He didn't like the glasses, they made him look far too grown up for his own age. People constantly asked if he was 13 or 14. It was kind of surprising at times, he was a bit short then.

Roy was outside mowing the lawn, and Mom and Gil were inside working on a 200 piece puzzle that was still in total chaos, while Gil listened to the radio on the countertop. An Elvis song was playing. Gil never much liked Elvis.

Then the lawnmower stopped. Gilly heard it, but didn't think much to turn around for it. _Another stupid mistake. Why didn't I turn around? _

The front door opened then slammed shut, making Gilly jump. Every time the door slammed in his dream, Gil jumped in his sleep. Gilly always looked up from the puzzle at this point. Never changed. Never kept staring, never got up, just looked as Roy came marching down the hallways and into the kitchen. This part always scared Gil.

"What the hell is your problem kid?! Why don't you answer when I call you?! You stupid little brat, why didn't you answer?!" Roy grabbed Gilly by the shoulder of his shirt and stood him up like he was a glass of water. Gilly tried to answer, but he was too scared to even think.

Mom stood up and placed her hand on Roy's shoulder. Roy lost all control. Forgetting about Gilly for a split second, he turned and backhanded Mom right across her face. Roy stopped for a second with terror in his eyes.

Now it was Gilly's turn to go berserk. He lunged at Roy with every ounce of strength he had in him, in hopes to grab his attention long enough for Mom to escape. Roy had never so much as harmed a wing on a fly before, at least not in Gil's memory. What made Roy so angry now?

Gilly nearly tackled Roy, sending him against the wall. The hanging light above shook with the force. A small glass figure sitting on a mantel piece fell to the floor and shattered in too many pieces to count.

He started kicking and punching in any and every available direction, not caring whether Gilly hit anybody or not. He had not clue how long he'd be thrashing about like a madman. It wasn't long. A new song had started on the radio. The Four Tops.

A hand connected to a jaw. He remembered that much. Roy's lip was busted nearly in two. Gilly fell on his butt on top of the shattered glass. A pain shot through his hand, but he didn't mind it. He was watching Roy. Watching every move he made. Watching as Roy's hand wiped the blood off his lip and threw it to the floor. Watched as Roy pointed to him, shouted something, and stormed back out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

Then Gil Grissom woke up. Same time, same place, every night. He always woke up in a cold sweat, afraid of somebody standing over him and grabbing his shoulder, only to yank him up out of the bed. _Why now? Over 35 years and they decide to come back? _

When Gil was younger, the nightmares haunted him then. He cried out every night for Mom, but she couldn't listen to him cry. He wanted to scream as loud as he could, hoping somebody would come and take him away from this hell-house.

Right now he felt like screaming. It was only 2:30 in the afternoon. He didn't need to go to work for at least another 5 hours. There was no way he wanted to go back to sleep. Not if he could help it. He didn't want to go to work very much either.

He sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. _I have to get out more. _It was the truth. Gil did need a new social life. All that he had were the books and the bugs. Strange as it may seem, under the poker face he always wore, Gil Grissom did need the occasional human interaction.

Now on his feet, Gil went over to the phone and checked the messages. None. How very unusual (note the dripping sarcasm). Digging through the contents of the refrigerator, he managed to find a bag of bread and a small amount of God-knows-how-old peanut butter.

The television that sat in his 'living room' was probably about as old as he was. When he moved out and found his own place, the TV went with him. He never understood why his mother cared to even buy it. Nobody ever watched anything, and when they did, it was only the news. Never the Saturday morning cartoons. Grissom had a deprived childhood.

_Maybe that's why I'm so anti-social. _He sat down on the blue couch that was in front of the TV with his lone peanut butter sandwich. _Great, I'm gonna die of food poisoning. _That's when a thought occurred to him. _What if I _did _die? Would the CSI team be called in on my account? What about the coroner? What about a funeral? Would anybody come? _

He fell back on the couch, his face toward the ceiling. The poor peanut butter sandwich abandoned next to him. When did the world become so scary? When did it become so alone? 4 billion people. Everybody needs somebody. But what about Gil Grissom? Was there anybody for him?

The phone on the side table next to the couch rang. Who calls at 2:30 these days? Does the world revolve during the daytime in Las Vegas? Or is it only at night? On his shift? Apparently not.

He let the phone ring a few more times before reaching over to pick it up. He didn't have the strength to sit up, so he buried his face in the pillow as he spoke.

"rithon" was what the pillow said. He didn't want sit up, even when it became a bit tough to breath. There was a voice at the other end of the phone.

"Gil? It's me. Uhh, we need you for a special case so I'll need you to come in for a while," said the voice. It was Don Carr, supervisor over the day shift at the local CSI lab where Grissom worked as supervisor of the night shift. Gil didn't much care for Don.

"Ah bizay" Gil was not in the mood at the moment to do much of anything. Don didn't sound too happy either. Nobody was happy these days. Gil wasn't happy, Don wasn't happy, the guy at the grocery store wasn't happy. What happened to happiness?

Don was quick to respond. "I know you're busy but we need you for this one."

Who could argue with logic? They needed him. That's all it took. _What does anybody need _me _for these days?_

When he arrived at the Lab, things were just plain weird. Things felt strange to him. It wasn't dark anymore. _They must be trying to prove to me that sunlight actually _does _exist. _People he didn't even know buzzed around him, doing the jobs that his team usually do. Welcome to the Twilight Zone.

As he was sauntering over to his office, head bent down, he ran straight into one of his team. Speak of the devil, and (s)he shall appear. Catharine Willows collided with Grissom's upper lip as the file she was holding crashed into his chest, sending papers flying every which way.

Grissom stepped back to help pick up the scattered papers. He put his index finger on his top gum, rubbed it a bit, and tasted blood on his finger. He knelt on the floor and reached for the first paper.

"So what's this special case that Don was talking about?" he asked. Might as well get to the point while we're still young. _Or at least one of us still is. _We don't have all day. What's the big surprise?

"Well, hello to you too. That's a wonderful way to start a conversation, Gris, try it next time you go out on a date. Anyways, they need your help with that kid over there on the bench." Catharine said as she pointed to a teenager hunched over on a short bench in one of the holding cells with a few other offenders.

Obviously, the kid was the youngest of the group. He didn't look very tall, had short brown hair, like in the military, and deep blue eyes. The blue looked like an ocean almost. Like they'd seen too much for their own good. The ocean held many things. So did the kids eyes.

The papers were picked up and arranged in the proper order. Grissom dug through the stack. Nothing special so far. A few misdemeanor charges, bounced from family to family.

Then something stood out. This kid, named Jack, was completely deaf. There was no medical explanation why. It just said that he was deaf. Grissom's mood sank even lower, and he handed the manila file back.

"Why the hell was I called in this early in the afternoon for?! You know I can't work on this case. Suspect-interrogator relationship, remember?" he still wasn't in the mood for this. He wasn't in the mood for anything but sleep. But he couldn't sleep. The dream would haunt him again. His life was so screwed up at the moment. Everything was slowly spiraling out of control.

"Yes you can. You've never met him before. So what, you have something in common. Big deal, so what, who cares? You can handle it. There weren't any others willing to show up for this job, so it's up to you. Please?" Now Catharine was practically begging him. She gave the best puppy dog eyes available. Gil had to go for it.

He thought for a second. She had a point. Just because they spoke the same language didn't mean he knew the kid personally. What harm could it do? He wasn't the jury, so he didn't have to decide this Jack person's fate.

"Fine, fine. Just don't pull this stunt on me again. Ever. Got it?" He didn't mean to sound so harsh about, but when you supervise an entire shift, you gotta do what you gotta do.

Catharine nearly dived on him in uber-excitement. A case like this hadn't come along in a long while, not since a deaf kid was run over by a car a number of times. Grissom actually showed a little emotion then, maybe he would now.

She was sneaky like that. It was almost like a chess game. She could force you to move without realizing it. And when you did realize that you've just screwed yourself over, it was far too late.

Of course, Grissom knew what she was doing long before she even did. In the game of life/chess, somebody's always one step ahead of the game. She would figure it out eventually, but for now, Grissom just amused her.

"Take him to the interrogation room. I'll be there in a minute." That was his final words before he headed once again for his office.

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One thing must be cleared up, here folks! I don't know anything about when Grissom was younger, so don't ask me. It's all just made up. Maybe his father's name was Roy, dunno, don't care, I just had Roy Orbison in mind while I was writing. Also, I gots this weird reading 'thing' where I add words and leave words out without realizing it. If you see a mistake, please let me know! Until number 3!


	4. 3: Left its seeds while I was sleeping

Chapter 3- Left its seeds while I was sleeping

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The first day of interrogation was one of the toughest. I wasn't exactly nervous, more along the lines of excited as hell. I was up all night thinking of stuff I was going to be asked. Some of it was stupid, and I laughed at it, but then the fear would come creeping back into me.

Walking down the hall to the room I saw Alice and Dave sitting on a green bench. Both were staring at the floor until they saw me coming. They stood up and put on these fake smiles as if nothing was wrong. Dave winked and gave me a thumbs-up. I tried to say something back but the cuffs wouldn't let me.

When the officer opened up the door the first thing that hit me was the stench. Nothing bad, but the place smelled as if the janitor had gone crazy with the Scrubbing Bubbles. The walls were a plain metallic grey, along with everything else in it. The funky mirror thing that I'd read about in all those mystery books was on the wall opposite a silver chair. That was intimidating.

The officer, who's name was Jerry (but he shall be referred to as Tom), kept his hand on my shoulder the whole time, until he sat me down in the chair facing the mirror. I stared at my reflection as if it would jump out and eat me. One thing I noticed was that I looked a lot younger than I thought I was. Alice was always saying how much of a man I looked every day.

I just realized I've never described myself. Let's see, then I was just shy of six feet, I had blue eyes, and really short, fuzzy, brown hair (This just proves that 'Fuzzy Wuzzy was not a woman, thank you), almost like a buzz-cut. I'd fit right in with that orange jumpsuit on.

I'm not sure how long I was staring at myself in the mirror. Probably wasn't very long, but it seemed like a good while to me at the time. The clock in the room ticked on, like a drill sergeant shouting orders at time. Each tick resounded in the room until my brain pounded along with it. My head was killing me.

As I concentrated on the annoying ticks, a man with graying hair walked in with a folder in his hands. He sat down across from me and placed a pair of thin glasses over his eyes. He reminded me of a slightly chubbier Luke Skywalker mixed with Paul McCartney, if he had spectacles.

A woman had walked in behind him. She looked a lot like Alice, which was a bit freaky when I look back on it. She preferred to stand back in the shadows, but watched with the same eye as the dude across from me.

The man introduced himself as one Gil Grissom. I wondered if he was ever called 'Fish' when he was younger. If he wasn't then, he will be now. Fishy. That's a great name.

Fishy started giving me all the legal mumbo-jumbo. All the junk about how I can refuse to answer the question if I wanted to or not, yah-dee-yah-dee-yah. I did what I had trained myself to do and stared at his lips as he spoke. Mr. Grissom stopped his speech, expecting me to say something, but of course, I didn't. Fishy looked back down at the paper before him and scrolled through until he found what he wanted.

He took off his glasses again and stared at me for a moment. It reminded me of the day back at Joe's, the one I mentioned earlier. I got nervous again and looked down at the table.

"Officer, will you remove the handcuffs, please?" Mr. Grissom asked. I figured why he asked, but continued staring down. I jumped when Jerry/Tom touched my shoulder. I'm not sure if it was habit or intentional, but I was startled. Everything made me jump these days.

I looked around, acting confused as to what was going on. I wasn't sure if they knew that I knew everything that was happening around me. I seriously need to go into acting one of these days.

When the cuffs were taken away I flexed my wrists and bent them in every direction they could move. They were a bit sore from the lack of movement, and I must've looked like an idiot wriggling them back and forth. But what the hell, it felt good to be out of them.

My attention was brought back by a hand waving in my face. The woman was staring at me with her eyebrow cocked as if I was mentally insane. I probably am, but who's counting? I looked over to her with my hands still up. She was creeping me out.

What happened next surprised me. Fishy started talking to me. Not vocally, but in my language. That's right, signing. I couldn't help but grin at him. Not too many people you meet off the street know how to sign.

'Do you know where you are?' he signed. He also spoke, my guess to help out his creepy girlfriend in the corner. I stole a glance at her as I looked around the room. She seemed out of place in her red leather jacket and blonde hair. The dude looked right at home.

I tried to make things lighten up a little bit, so I tried my infamous wit (backed up by a side order of good looks...yeah right). 'The Nautilus?' I said, as if he held the answer. _That's a tough word to fingerspell_, I thought. He chuckled a little, but continued the conversation.

'This place is probably run like it. Can you speak?' Fishy asked. I hated that question. Speech was the only class I ever failed at school, that and Spanish. I looked back down in pure shame and shook my head no.

'That's okay. I'm going to ask you a few questions, like I said, you can refuse to answer them if you want to, but it's probably in your best interest to answer them. Can you tell me where you were the day that Tyler was murdered?' he questioned. Murdered. I didn't like that word.

I remember exactly where I was that day. March 3rd had been a Friday, and every Friday at 5 o'clock I am at the library, listening to John Lennon screech out a slightly techno meets Buddhist chanting song called 'Tomorrow Never Knows'. I was reading an H.G. Wells book.

'I was at the library' I replied, 'I go there every week, same time.' Fishy wrote some stuff down in the file after I had finished. I tried to steal a glance at what it was, but he closed it before I could see. I slumped back down in my chair.

'Do you play baseball?' Fishy said. Of course I did, William Hoy was my hero growing up. I mean, what other sport could you just stand around and wait for something to happen and that you didn't need to hear or speak to play? Sorry, golf doesn't count. I eagerly nodded.

'We had practice before I left. I stayed after and helped clean everything up.' Good story so far. It was true, I had stayed behind to clean up the equipment. The only other people who stayed was Tyler, Coach Martin, and this scrawny kid named Brian, who reminded me of Radar on MASH.

Mr. Grissom asked what I thought he would, about who stayed behind. I told him everybody's name and what they did. My head was practically driving nails into my brain. A hand shot up to my temple and my face contorted in pain.

Fishy tapped my hand to get my attention again and asked if I was okay. Excuse me, but are you blind?! My eyeballs are about to pop out of my forehead, do you think I'm okay?! I nodded anyways.

'Did you have to put the bats away?' Fishy was probably as earnest as I was to end this stupid conversation and get the damned thing over with so I could be sent to jail for the rest of my life. I nodded again.

'Do you know where the other three were?' he asked. Let's see...Brian was doing all the mathematical stuff, RBI's, errors, that sort of junk. Coach was talking to Tyler, but I didn't see where any of them went.

'Brian was doing the stats, but I don't know about the other two,' was my response. In truth, I didn't know where they were. Where any of them were, now that I think about it. My response only provoked more writing. What is up with the writing, for God's sake?

'So you have no idea where they were?' Mr. Grissom continued. I shrugged no, hoping he understood. From then on, they were pretty much routine questions. Questions like did anybody see you at the library, where did you go from there, etcetera. My headache was blaring in the middle of my mind, almost like a sheep with a mega-phone. Fishy kept going on and on with questions, then he asked something I wasn't expecting.

'Can I ask you where you got your name?'

I had no idea where Jack came from. I don't remember who gave it to me. I didn't, I know that much. I closed my eyes and thought as hard as I can. Thoughts came rushing at me like freight trains. I remember a box. A box with sky blue balloons on them, and a red top.

The headache I had kept on growing. My trail of thought was broken by it. At this moment, I truly felt deaf. I couldn't hear or concentrate on anything except the pounding in my ears. I tried as hard as I could to recall that one memory.

There was a woman. A woman with brown hair. She was laughing or something. Then she hugged me. And kissed my cheek. She said something, but I don't know what it was. Then she left the room to get the phone. And then...And then...

The last thing I heard was the guy saying my name before I was out like a light...

* * *

That's three if I counted it right! I see many reviews, but I must have more! Oh yeah, hoodedsweatshirt, my good friend, no Jack's not Grissom's long lost kid. That'd be kinda creepy. Uhh.........that's all I got. See you in 4!


	5. 4: And the vision that was planted in my...

Chapter 4: And the vision that was planted in my brain…

* * *

Grissom sauntered into his office with so many mixed emotions he couldn't count them all. Never in his entire career of interrogations has anybody ever passed out in the middle of one.

_Do I scare people that much?_

He stopped inside the doorway and stared at his dark office. The place looked like a smaller version of his apartment, that is, if you forget the fact that he has pints of years old blood and various sterilized objects.

He flipped the switch next to him and for a split second, he thought lightning struck the middle of his office. His eyes clamped shut as he stepped back and hit his head against the wall.

A millisecond must have passed before he opened his eyes again, only to be plunged into total darkness. He flicked the light switch again. Nothing happened.

"Damn light must've blown," he said to himself as he turned out of his office and headed for the Lab.

* * *

As Grissom rounded the corner into the lab, a swivel chair came within inches of tearing his feet off. Greg Sanders reached for a paper that was recently printed out as his chair was going through a ballet routine across the tile. Gil grabbed for the back of the chair.

The chair stopped with a sudden jolt, causing Greg to fly face forward on the ground, hand limply resting on the table holding the paper he was reaching for.

Greg jumped up (always full of energy is the life-form known as Greg Sanders) and brushed off his white lab coat. He grabbed for the paper behind him, reading the results out loud for the entire lab to hear. Hear ye, hear ye.

"These are the results of your blood test. Tyler's system shows that he had a dangerous amount of gamma hydroxybutyrate. If he wasn't murdered before hand, he would have died within minutes." Greg grinned as once again, he confirmed the fact that he could read.

Greg looked up at the ceiling for a moment and began thinking aloud. "Isn't GHB used as a date rape drug, usually?" Gil looked at Greg for a moment and threw the hideous thought out of his mind.

Grissom studied the paper for a few moments. Just one more piece of evidence that helped point the finger at Jack. There had to be some sort of clue that proved his innocence. But where is it?

* * *

I was still sitting on the bench when the Fishy guy walked up to me. He was starting to really freak me out. Stalker-person. He also looked very stressed. Maybe that creepy chick needed to give him a hug.

Dave had gone a few minutes ago to get something to eat. The whole day must've been hell for both of them. I don't see why they care so much; I'm not their kid, not by blood in any case.

Luckily, Fishy came by again just as I was about to rip the skin off my eyeballs from boredom. He still looked as if he could down a bottle of NyQuil and morph into Rip Van Winkle at any moment. Dude, word of advice: insomnia kills. The manila file was back as well.

The second round of questioning was a shit-load easier then the first. The headache was down to a dull stampede, so I was feeling a little better. I still felt as if I wanted to curl up into a ball and never show my face in the light of day again, though.

"How do you feel?" Mr. Grissom asked. This time he didn't sign to me, so I looked towards Jerry/Tom in the corner. Jerry/Tom looked even paler in the hall light, causing his skin to almost blend in with the walls. Dracula meets gecko.

Fishy tapped my shoulder and silently repeated his question. Jerry/Tom watched in fascination, like most people do (That gets on my nerves, so heed my warning). He told me that I had a fever, and that I could use some sleep. No shit, Sherlock! You could use some, too.

_"So tell me about Tyler," _he said. More of a command, actually. Damn, what shouldn't I tell? Nobody liked Tyler. Even the teachers hated every fiber of his existence. Tyler was one of those kids who you wanted to kill just for breathing.

_"Everybody hated Tyler. I didn't like him. Even his friends were afraid of him. Nobody was safe. The first day of school he chose me to douse in flour from the school kitchen. I remember one day he got on Brian just because he was too small to play on the baseball team. I swear I nearly tackled him. I hated whenever he made fun of somebody. I could've killed him for every time he did it." _Once I started talking, I couldn't finish.

Oh shit.

Mr. Grissom gaped at me in pure awe.

I think I just accidentally committed suicide.

* * *

Grissom stormed into his office and sat down behind his desk. He didn't think life could get any lower than this, but it did.

There had to be a piece of evidence, but he was completely fooled. Even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't think himself out of this one.

With the manila folder open in front of him, he stared down at Jack's records. There were a number of minor convictions for thefts, but the majority of them had been resolved. At one point he was even detained for a week because of inability to testify.

As he glanced over the record, a date stood out in his mind. March 16th, 1983. Today's date was March 11th, 2001. In 5 days Jack would turn 18. The legal age of an adult. Things just keep getting better and better.

Life just needed to stop. Everything moved so fast, he couldn't keep up with it. As soon as something slightly good happened, something reared it ugly head and the whole case started over again. There had to be a way out of this constant wheel-of-torture.

Within the deep recesses of his mind, Grissom could hear a voice. Not exactly a voice, more of a whisper. It culminated into a cascade of evil thoughts that couldn't be shut out of his mind. He remembered a conversation he had with this voice a day or two ago.

_What if I _did _die?_

He wanted to scream. Would anybody honestly care? Was there anybody for Grissom? Did they want him here? Do _I _want to be here?

The thought ran into him as if a semi-truck had run over him. What could he do? He could open a vein, but that would be messy. If Gilbert R. Grissom was going to die, there would be as little mess as possible.

The .45 he took with him to every on-the-scene case was on his desk, staring at him. Although the gun itself was never used, the bullets were changed every night. The barrel was probably getting rusty. The shot would make things quicker, that's for certain. But where to shoot? So many choices.

He could go for the temple. Depending on which side he shot would also determine which ability would be completely disabled. If he shot the left side, the skull would shatter, along with the countless number of neurons there. His speech would be stolen, a permanent cats-got-your-tongue. He'd also be a vegetable for the rest of his life.

What about between the teeth? The brain stem would be blown out the back of his head. He would never be able to breath on his own, that is, if he lived. Most of his vital functions would never work.

Then, as if Vesuvius was reincarnated inside of him, he stood up and grabbed the nearest object, which happened to be a reading lamp on his left side. With all his available strength, he hurled the lamp at the wall in front of him, shattering it into an innumerable amount of pieces.

Memories of his father came rushing back to him.

_I'm turning into him. _He sank to the floor behind his desk, his face in his hands. He hated being where he was in life. A broken, excommunicated loner, who's only true friend was a tarantula deviously planning its escape from the plastic cage. A pair of sneakers slowly tiptoed over the shards of glass glittering from the light of the hallway.

"What's wrong, Nick?" Grissom question the sneakers, his face still in his hands. Nick's shoes shifted weight from one to the other.

"What happened in here?" Nick questioned back. He kicked at a few pieces of glass.

"I tripped over the lamp cord; I'll clean it up in a minute." Gil replied. He watched the sneakers slowly turn and leave the room. A small sigh crept over him. What was he going to do?

Grissom stood up, the cold, blank expression written over his face like a Charles Dickens novel. Grabbing the .45 in front of him, he checked to see if the bullet was still in the chamber before cocking it, and pressing it to his temple.

To a person about to die, 30 seconds can seem like a very long time. Almost an eternity. Gil lowered the gun and stared at it. One push of a button would decide his fate. He'd be free. Yet he lacked the courage.

Then again, what, or who, did he have to live for? What was stopping him? _Go ahead, stupid, now's your chance._

Gilbert R. Grissom placed the gun back up to his temple, the cold steel causing a shiver to run down his back.

Taking one last breath, he put his finger to the trigger.

* * *

And that be the end of chapter four (cuatro, to all our spanish speaking friends). Sorry if it's a bit deep, but it's 11 o'clock at night, and I have a 500 word essay due tomorrow, along with a biology report thingy, and another project from another class. Ack, I can't write that essay for anything. Anyways, you will be surprised about the upcoming chapters. Coming up next: violence AND sex. Well, maybe not, but keep reading! 


	6. 5: Still remains

Chapter 5-Still remains within the sounds of silence…

* * *

_What have I done?_

That's the only thing I could say to myself as they nearly dragged my sorry ass back to the holding cell. My knees refused to lock into place; I just couldn't bring up the energy to stand.

In times like these, I would try to say something either really stupid or really funny, without an awkward silence following, but now, as I sit here in my new home, I realized that my life is just an awkward silence.

Ever since that day when I was seven years old, I've been completely locked up. There are only two or three times that I can remember that I've proven my voice still exists, but talking I've completely forgotten. My mouth feels as if there's water inside it, and if I open my mouth to talk, all the water will come spilling out, leaving just another spill on the floor for Jack to take care of.

Everything I ever did was wrong, as both Carl Perkins and Ringo Starr have said. As I reminisce, there are only a handful of memories in which I have done something _right. _But the rest of my body mass consists of the times I've messed up.

At this point, I regret not spilling the tomato sauce to Joe. Would my life be any different if I could speak? Or would it still be same? Is it possible to change all the crap I've done? Would I be able to fix all the grief and pain I've caused? _Would it be easier if I just didn't exist?_

Do you ever wish that you were in Jimmy Stewarts shoes and had a guardian angel tell you how your life would be so much worse without you? I've been thinking about that a lot lately. How can my life be any worse if I'm not here? If I wasn't here, there would be no life to screw up in the first place. Why is this all so confusing!

By this point, I was trying with every vertebrae of backbone that I had not to start bawling. There were only two times in my life that I have ever cried, and this would definitely not be one of them. This couldn't be. I would never 'hear' the end of it if I did.

The holding cell was crammed with other people. Men, and one woman, of all ages and sizes (every last one of them able to snap me in two like a twig), were nearly stacked on top of the other as they all waited for their chance to tell their story and hear their sentence. But none were in for murder.

They all gave me strange looks. Maybe they knew my secret. Maybe they were all guilty, and maybe they were all innocent. _Everybody's innocent in Shawshank, Jack. _How soon was I going to learn that?

Dave was the first to see me after the…interview. He looked liked a train had just rolled over him a couple of times, but he remained surprisingly calm. His face was still stone cold, but his eyes were brighter than usual. Alice had gone home hours ago, after being told thousands of times that I was fine and my brain was still intact. Dave had requested a room where the both of us could 'talk', but he just stood there, waiting for me to say anything.

_I did not mean to do that, _I told him. Mistake numero uno. Never start a soliloquy with somebody else in the room, especially if they are unclear as to what exactly 'that' is.

_Do what?_ He asked. Every once in a while he would chew on his fingernails, keeping his eyes very intent on me and my fingers.

_I did not mean to say that. I was not paying attention. It caught me by surprise. _I guess when you've been stuck inside of yourself; just about anything can come as a surprise. I couldn't stop. All the things I've wanted to say since the beginning of high school finally just exploded. And look where it got me. Dave checked his watch; we only had a few moments left.

_Are you mad at me?_ I had to ask. This would probably be the last time I would ever get to see him this close. There was so much more that I wanted to ask as well, but there wasn't enough time. There's never enough time.

_I do not know what to think, Jack. _Dave looked disappointed. Time was winding down. I could see the guards walking down the hall. They were coming to get me, completely armed. Now was my only chance to say everything.

_Don't let them take me away…I'm sorry…I'm sorry. _My fingers were flying as fast as they could. _Please, Dad, let me stay…I don't want to go…Don't leave me…_

A guard announced that time was up; to what purpose I still haven't figured out. I fought as hard as I could, while still trying to talk to Dave. Every ounce of my body was fighting back, including my voice. I wasn't screaming, yet, but I made enough noise to call more guards in.

By the time they had finally cuffed my hands and hand me by the shoulders, I was completely worn out. I wanted to fall over and sleep if it was possible. As we walked down the hallway, I could hear my new neighbors. I failed to give them any acknowledgment, as I was trying to look back once more at Dave, who was still standing at the doorway with his hands in his pockets. But then he did something which I can never forget.

He said one last thing. One of the simplest signs ever created, yet it can say so much. The pinky, index, and thumb. The I, the L, and the Y.

_I love you._

It was then that I let my guard down and began to cry, slowly at first, and then racking sobs. I couldn't help myself. Of the three families that I lived with, none but the Murray's ever said that they actually _loved _me. They couldn't be lying, could they?

I know, it's a sudden change to go from smart-ass to manic depressive in a matter of seconds, but it works for Sherlock Holmes. Maybe I should pretend to chuck myself over the falls of Reichenbach, disappear for three years, and return, blaming the whole ordeal on my math teacher. That's not a bad idea, actually.

There are a few good things about being in jail and possibly on death row. For instance, I never have to work. School is completely out of the picture. There are no bills to pay, and food is provided. But a few of the inmates have given me a word of advice (they were all drunks, so they didn't know I was a 'deaf-mute'): Stay away from the man named Bubba and always leave the soap on the floor…

* * *

I'm so sorry this took forever to be updated. Time just seemed to fly by me. Plus I've been working on a whole different story, school just started a little while ago, I have a bunch of essays due on Monday, you know the stories. Next time on SoS: What's going on withGrissom? Will he survive his moment of dispair, or will some people be very dissapointed and I will be flamed over an open spit? Who knows! But review, review, review! Until numero seis!


	7. 6: In restless dreams I walk alone

Chapter 6- In restless dreams I walk alone…

Warrick Brown awoke with a start, blinking his eyes as a bright fluorescent light blared overhead. In his left hand was a cold cup of gritty coffee and on his right arm a stream of his own saliva, trailing down his forearm and onto the metal table below. He had barely slept in the past 24 hours, his mind concentrated on a murder at a local bar.

He sat up slowly and turned to face Nick Stokes as he was pouring some of the cafeteria sludge that most people drink every day. The smell was terrible, yet the entire crime lab went through at least six bags of it every week, especially the graveyard shift.

Nick, on the other hand, was wide awake. He had clocked in only moments ago, ready to begin another night's work, hoping that a promotion he was waiting for would finally appear. Nobody had the guts to tell him the promotion was given to somebody else four months ago.

He sat across from Warrick, stirring a packet of sugar into his coffee. His friend looked dead-tired (which is partly a joke if you think about it).

"So what are you gonna call the river you're drooling all over the table; the River Warrick?" Nick joked, hoping to get a rise out of his colleague. Warrick rubbed his drooping eyelids and yawned deeply. At the rate he was going, all the sheep his mom told him to count were going to be laid off.

"Ha-ha, laugh it up. You try getting up from a ten hour shift at 11 o'clock in the morning, dragging some girl's dead body down to the morgue, breaking the news to her apparently indifferent parents, going back to the scene for another four hours, and starting the next shift two hours later." Even this little splurge of annoyance was wearing Warrick out. Nick laughed, his country twang all too apparent.

"Well, how about taking a break from your case and heading over to Doc Robbins' for some meatball investigation?" Nick asked in all sincerity. Warrick looked at the clock. 11:42 and he felt as if it was 7:30 in the morning already. He stood and nodded, downing the last of the coffee and instantly regretting it. Nick followed suit, carefully transporting his Styrofoam cup down the hall.

* * *

Officially, I had been in jail for 8 hours and 23 minutes, if you didn't count the two hours I spent unconscious. I'd been fitted some time ago into a stylish orange jumper with a brown stain on the ass of it and the name 'Sheila' stitched on the inside sleeve. Yup, this is some pretty classy living.

Dinner was absolutely disgusting. I could've sworn there was something moving around in it. The sign on the wall next to the serving-line said that it was potato soup, but I'm sure that any type of soup is not black and wiggly. The other prisoners didn't notice it.

Apparently they haven't had a dummy in the slammer for a very long time. Of course, this means open season on my ass (no pun intended), but it wouldn't be an unusual thing. The whole night I've been stared at like I was under a microscope. It's not that big of a deal at school, but in jail you're not sure what they're staring at. Or what they want to do with you.

But there are a few inmates who've tried their hands (Ha! Another lame joke by Jack Randall Murray!) at conversation. One tried to exorcise the mute-ness out of me, believing that the devil had seized my voice and only the hand of God could wrestle it from him. Another had sworn he'd seen me at a Led Zeppelin concert (and apparently I took part in a ritualistic blood-letting/sex orgy ceremony), and a third man said that he would meet me in cell 3G for a bit of 'fun' tomorrow night. I now fear for my life.

The guards have been sympathetic though. They occasionally stop and tell me a word of advice, or vent about their wives. Jerry/Tom delivered me a couple of classics from the library on other side of the building, and said to write down any requests that I might have (You know, I've always wanted to read 'Harpo Speaks' sometime).

I guess everybody figures that I'll either be stuck with them or gone within the next couple of weeks, so they've been either really friendly, or really distant. It reminds me of the families I've lived with.

There is approximately two minutes left of March 10th, 2000. In five days I will be 18 years old. I've always had this picture in my head of what my 18th birthday would be like. I'd be at home, with Dave trying to coax Alice (who is making a cake) into letting me drink illegally. While they argued, I'd be sitting on the front steps enjoying the spring air and hoping that it wouldn't rain tomorrow.

But then I realize that there will be no more spring air. I'll never feel it in my bones again. I should be protesting. I mean, I didn't do anything, and yet I'm going to be in jail for the rest of my life. Where's the democracy in that?

As I'm laying on this uncomfortable piece of tin they call a bed, I begin to think about Joe. He was the first person I could remember who actually resembled a father to me. I would fall down, and he would rush from behind the counter to pick me up. He asked how school went, and showed me how to throw a right hook in case the bullies decided to pick on me again.

But hearing that he died was the worst pain I've ever felt in my life, due in part to the fact that I burned my arm in my anger that day. I had been reading the newspaper (I'm one of those strange people who read the obituaries), and his name stuck out. Richard "Joe" Collin Spilman. I was so upset that I accidentally slammed the paper down on a boiling pot, causing the contents to spill onto my arm. That was the first time I had ever cried.

I never learned why people called him Joe. It wasn't his real name, obviously. But then again, I'm not sure if Jack is my real name either. Maybe it's something exotic like Fernando.

Sleep is beginning to settle in. I didn't think I'd be able to sleep tonight, but all the stress has been taking its toll on me. There's only five seconds left until March 11th.

5…4…3…2……

Doctor Al Robbins slowly peeled a layer of mikrosil from a young boy's neck, careful to leave the wound as clean as possible. The rubber was tough and leathery in his gloved hands and the light from above gave it an eerie grey color. It was like peeling skin off an alien.

Behind him, the chatter of Warrick Brown and Nick Stokes was quickly drawing near. Their conversation concerning the latest video games was less than interesting, but Robbins' focus was on the teenaged corpse if front of him. He was interrupted by Nick's cheery voice.

"So what've you got for us, Doc?" he asked, peering over the Doc's shoulder. What Nick saw wasn't exactly picturesque, but compared to all the other murders he had scene, the site wasn't gruesome either.

It was a young man, tagged as Tyler Benson; aged 19 years at time of death. The neck had a dark red line running from jugular vein to jugular vein, and his skull was completely bashed in. His right ear pointed at an odd angle where the bones near the temple had been crushed, and the eye socket was completely distorted. The sad thing was that this was not the worst Nick had seen.

"The deceased died of asphyxiation, rather than head trauma. Note the swelling near the lips and blue fingernails, both of which point towards strangling. There are no signs of struggle on the body; the GHB Greg found would have made him lethargic and incapacitated. The weapon used to strangle him was a nylon bungee cord commonly found on sports bags and equipment." Doc handed them each an evidence bag. Nick's clear plastic baggie held a blue cord. He scrutinized it carefully as Warrick examined the body for himself. Something stood out.

"Wait, Doc, you forgot something. Don't give me that look, you make mistakes too. The cord line, it points down, rather than up. How tall is the suspect?" he asked.

"Approximately six feet tall," was Robbins' reply. He could see where this was going, but Warrick continued anyways.

"And the vic is less than 5'10". Naturally, the suspect would've pulled up to strangle him, especially if this Tyler kid had been on his knees." Warrick felt a surge of satisfaction run through him. His ego had just gained a point, but of course, Nick had to step in.

"What about the red hair on the cord? Neither the deceased or the suspect are red headed," Nick proclaimed. He could see it now; tonight was going to be another friendly competition between two rivals colleagues. All three peered into the bag. It was true; a short, thick piece of red hair was wrapped around the hook.

"So you're saying there could be two sus-" Warrick stopped dead sentence. Nick's evidence bag parachuted to the floor as he turned sharply, groping for the weapon that was not there. The entire office had heard it. A loud twanging _bang _thatresonated throughout the hallway; and every single employee knew what it was.

A gunshot.


	8. 7: Narrow streets of cobblestone

Chapter 7-Narrow streets of cobblestone

* * *

Nick Stokes and Warrick Brown were running as fast as their legs could carry them. In their hands were two .45's, loaded, locked, and ready to use if the situation called for it. From what they could hear, the only noise coming from the hallway was the curious chatter from the rest of the lab. But over the garbled conversation, they both could hear their own heartbeats.

It was as if the entire lab had descended upon the tiny dead-end hallway. People were shouting back and forth to one another, trying to see over the person in front of them, it was total chaos. Through the crowd, Nick could pick out certain faces, but there were some he had never seen before.

Warrick, on the other hand, was having trouble trying to see what was in front of him. The mass of people were blocking his line of vision. Deep within his gut he wanted to point the .45 up and shoot the ceiling to quiet everybody, like in the movies, but that would be another stupid idea, expensive too.

They struggled for five more long minutes, when suddenly there was a light at the end of the mob. Fresh air was within their grasp if only they could just shove their way past the few bodies that stood before them.

Giving one last push, they both stood at the head of the growing mob, gasping for air, staring at the empty office in front of them. Blood had pooled all over the floor, and spatters dotted the wall behind a mahogany desk.

Without warning, Nick keeled over and landed on Warrick's shoulder, struggling to stay conscious as he read the nameplate on the desk.

Gil R. Grissom

At two in the morning, I was woken by voices in my head; at least that's what I thought they were until the guard walked past my cell. On his shoulder was a black speaker connected to a walkie-talkie that constantly spat police gibberish into the quiet cell block. A few of the other inmates had heard the strange voice, too. Good thing, though; I thought I was going crazy for a moment.

"Need of assistance…Single gunshot…office of Gil Grissom…" the radio announced, talking at a mile a minute. I could barely keep up with the police lingo, but I knew the name. Gil Grissom, AKA Fishy. Sitting up, I strained my ears to listen to the rest of the report.

"No suspects at scene…possible suicide…no movement from within…"

Hold the megaphone. What did she just say? I was talking to the guy no more than 24 hours ago, and now he might be dead?

"Waiting for head CSI…need backup…Send assistance…"

If anything, Fishy had nearly become my friend (And how much parmesan went into that last sentence?). I never met him before, but we had a language that was all our own in that room. For once, I didn't have to feign ignorance and act as if I had no clue as to what was going on. It was almost calming.

But now the only friend I had in this entire hellhole of a prison is probably dead, and I'm completely cut off from the rest of the world once again. It was hard enough at school, but school only lasts for about 65 percent of the day. In prison, there's no escape.

I had to get out of that cell. I had to see Alice and Dave. I had to go home. I have to…_leave_?

Maybe Fishy had made the right decision after all. I wonder how he died. Was it a murder, like I was hoping, or the unthinkable? He's a smart man, actually. At least he did it while he still had the chance. I, on the other hand, have to sit in jail and rot for the rest of my life. That lucky bastard.

I've often asked myself if I could go through with it, and end the constant charade of silence, the sudden pangs of guilt, and the life that I had completely screwed up. But how? There weren't many pointy objects in prison. And the day that zippers become lethal is the end of civilization as we know it.

It's kind of entertaining to think of how you will die. Will you go down in a blaze of glory, or simply snuff yourself out? Will _you _do it, or the random hobo down the street whose only dangerous weapon is the spork he keeps behind his ear? So many choices.

If I was going to die, I'd want it to be violent. Lots of quiet time can do that to you. You have much more time to think about things than most other people do. It's like being in a room with thousands of people all shouting different things and the silence that you hold on to is the only thing keeping you sane. Or maybe I'm just crazy.

Maybe the voice on the walkie-talkie _was_ a voice in my head. That's got to be a sure sign of insanity (excuse me, _mental illness_). That's another entertaining thing to think about. If you were crazy, how crazy would you be?

I think I'm a chronic liar, like Iago. For some odd reason, I've kept this game going for over ten years, and it's become a part of me that I can't escape. It's a blessing and a curse. Sometimes I just want to shout at somebody or cheer on a football team, but I know full well I can't. Sometimes I'm thankful for it.

I also think I've made a mockery of the Deaf culture. I can hear perfectly, and could probably recite all of Hamlet if given the chance, but there are those who can do neither, and have no means of fixing it. The old man I met years ago at all those signing classes is permanently stuck, while I can snap my fingers and be done with the whole thing. What have I gotten myself into?

This whole shebang is spiraling out of control. Life is spiraling out of control, and my entire world consists of only a 6x8 block with a sardine can, a rusty toilet, and…and a few rusty springs under the bed.

There's only one way out of this cell, and I think I just found it.

* * *

Gil Grissom looked at the jar in his hands, labeled January 3rd, 1998. Thick, congealing blood filled the inside, caking the glass with a centimeter thick coat of near black crust. It was his only jar left.

The ballistics dummy had taken the full grunt of the bullet that was originally intended for him. Its face was nearly blown in two as the bullet shattered the membrane of red ooze that was filled the skull, spattering the back wall with a gruesome layer of dripping liquid. Was this how his death would've looked like?

So he sat in a corner, listening as best he could to the chaos that was ensuing outside his doorway. They had all heard it, his near death experience. Every once in awhile, the guard stationed outside told somebody off, hoping the mob of interested onlookers would wind down. But two people had managed to slip through.

"Grissom? Where are you, man? Come on, talk to me!" Warrick's usually quiet voice echoed in the room with enough force to snap Grissom out of his reverie. In his darkened corner, he could see two guns pointed, nervously twitching as they waited for any signs of movement. It was as if he was watching a movie. _It's a Wonderful Life._

He was about to call out to the floating, alien guns that cast eerie shadows on the floor, but something held Grissom back. This could be his only chance to get what Jimmy Stewart unexpectedly received: the chance to see life without him, if only for a few seconds.

The dummy was lying on the floor behind his desk, its arm resting limply in the only streak of light from the doorway, giving it an unusually fleshy appearance. The gun Grissom had thrown to the floor had actually landed only inches from the squishy appendage. Blood dotted the hand and the floor surrounding it. The whole scene would make a perfect investigation.

He wondered what would happen if the dummy could move. More than likely it would scare the hell out of everybody (himself included). An amusing thought. That would be too cruel, though. Still, it was funny to think about.

A flash of panic ran across Nick's face as he noticed the flabby hand lying motionless behind his desk. The glass Grissom had promised to sweep up crunched under Warrick's shoes as he bolted forward, only to be stopped cold at the sudden realization that the body he had been searching for was nothing more than a fake.

"Grissom? Where'd you go, man?" Nick called, a hint of relief dotting his voice. But Gil Grissom didn't hear him, his attention diverted once more to the morbid thoughts that ran track through his mind.

Although he didn't show it, Grissom _did _care about what people thought of him. He had always felt that first impressions caused a major impact on social surrounding. _I'm sure the first time I met the Graveyard shift they must've thought me a total jackass…_

But last impressions could also make or break someone; at least their reputation. Do people still truly care for you after you're dead? Or are you dead only when you're forgotten?

He was interrupted by Nick's fingers snapping at his attention. Fuzzy words became clear as Grissom's focus was diverted back to his office, a much darker place compared to the deep crevices in his mind.

"…-at happened?" asked a fearful Warrick, giving his shoulder a light shake. The dark made it difficult to completely understand his two CSI's, but Grissom searched for faces outlined in bright orange. Their voices sounded muffled and unclear.

"I'm sorry?" Grissom found the face he was searching for, but features could not be distinguished. Both looked like alien shadows with the hall light behind them. It had been an annoyance with his mother; people who stood in front of lights were very difficult to understand.

"I said 'what happened'?"

"It was nothing; just an experiment," he replied, searching for anything reasonable to say but finding none. Eckli is going to have his ass for this, and the janitor is probably going to put Grissom on his hit list.

Both Nick and Warrick were skeptical. Any experiment with a gun had to be tested in the ballistics lab. Some people have lost jobs for 'incidences' such as these. There was just something about Grissom's behavior over the past few days that made it seem as if they were walking on glass. One mistake could easily cause their friend to shatter.

A while later, they were clearing up the mess in his office, working around the clock to finish before Eckli arrived for the day shift. For years he had been searching for a way to can anyone from the Graveyard for the smallest reasons. And fake blood all over the walls and broken lamps everywhere would probably send him into cardiac arrest.

Grissom threw the last of the lamp into a large trash container, trying his best to stifle a yawn. The crowd that was stationed outside his door had slowly dissipated when they learned there was nothing wrong (much to their dismay). And when he thought about it, today had been a pretty normal day for Grissom.

Until the phone rang at exactly 7:30.

Slowly he picked up the receiver, adjusting the volume in case the muffle-effect returned with a vengeance. Suddenly he was reminded of Beethoven's 5th Symphony. It was as if fate was ringing its haunting tune. Before he could speak however, a gruff voice was already on the other end.

"Yeah, is this Gil Grissom? My name is Geoffrey Stein; I'm with the medical division of the Las Vegas Correctional Facility. We need you to come down and help us with a kid named Jack Murray. Do you know him?"

"Yeah, I'm working on his case. Why, what's wrong?"

There was a long pause as this Geoffrey Stein character looked for a blunt way to put this.

"Jack Murray tried to kill himself this morning."

* * *

Okay, so I've decided not to bore you with useless apologies of not writing. My New Years Resolution was to finish this story this year, and I'm going to do it! Chapter 8 is in the works, though I can't guarantee when it will be done. Until then, I hope your holidays were happy and safe, unlike Jack's upcoming birthday... Anyways, veré a ustedes en ocho! 


	9. 8: 'Neath the halo of a streetlamp

Chapter 8-'Neath the halo of a streetlamp

* * *

Have you ever noticed that before a doctor puts you to sleep, the last thing you think about is the first when you wake up? It's as if your brain is suspended in that realm just before sleep hits you and for what feels like ten minutes you're…happy. That's what I thought it was, but I learned later that the moments of happiness I felt was when my heart finally stopped beating.

It's a weird thing, bleeding to death. It feels as if somebody is filling your lungs with helium. The process is slow, nauseatingly slow, but numbing. After a while you can't feel anything, your brain finally shuts down, and a strange sense of euphoria begins to take over.

At first, my head began to swirl. Images ran together into one hellish train wreck, to the point that the only thing I could do was close my eyes. It was then that I grew scared; I wasn't sure if I could open them again.

A merry-go-round was running through my head, and about ready to run off its reel at the rate it was going. My arms felt warm and tingly, but I couldn't raise my head far enough to look.

I didn't know how long I was on the floor, but it was long enough for the blood to pool. Sitting there in your own liquid life force is haunting. All that is left of your world is the deep velvet you rest in (Surprisingly, that's not from a song; I made it up). It makes one feel claustrophobic.

And that is when you can't breathe. The lighter-than-air feeling is replaced by a sudden drop that takes every last breath from you. I literally felt like a fish out of water, and I realized I couldn't turn back.

But I could hear two things through the whole shebang. The sound of my own heart beat slowing in my left ear, and of my lungs closing in the right. I was choking from the inside, and I couldn't call for help. There was only one thing I could think of.

With the little strength I had left I used to get the guards attention. Kicking my feet, I managed to wake up enough of the other inmates with my monotonous clanging to call Jerry/Tom over to my cell. He shouted something, and then clambered with a few keys to get the stupid door open, calling my name as he went.

My eyes felt even heavier, and I wasn't sure if they would stay open any more. Everything started to happen in slow motion. I remember Jerry/Tom laid me on my back, groping about my neck for a pulse (you guys have sick minds, you know), and then shaking my chest a couple of times.

And the last thing I decided before succumbing to what could possibly be my end, was that if any CPR is done, I will wake up long enough to drag whoever did it back down with me.

* * *

From there it was very touch-and-go. What felt like every few seconds I could hear just a snippet of what was going on around me, but every time I opened my eyes, or tried to, I was blinded by a bright overhead lamp. It was like being in a swivel chair from hell.

People were shouting in every direction, machines were being switched on, plastic bags were being ripped open, and the most I could do was lie there. Why was everybody going through all this trouble just to save _me_?

_"…pulse is dropping…hypoxia is beginning to settle in…we need more blood in here!...Jack, can you hear me?...No, he's the deaf kid that came in yesterday…where the hell is that blood…begin chest compressions _(Okay, I definitely said 'no' to that earlier in the chapter)…_we're losing him…"_

Suddenly I felt more pain rip through my spine than I have ever felt in my life. I was slipping in and out of consciousness, but there was a rhythmic pattern to it. I could hear a low whine right before I fizzled out, and then zap, I was partly awake again. It took a moment before it registered that 150 joules of electricity ran screaming through my body. And when that happens, it can mean only one thing.

I'm dying.

* * *

For any curious folks out there, there is no light at the end of a tunnel. Life does not flash before your eyes (I wouldn't want to see mine again, anyways). It may be different for you, but for me, it was the only time I can remember when I was fully content.

I remember there was a woman who took care of me when I was around six years old. She wasn't the woman in the flashback I had in the interrogation room, but somebody much closer. And it's the only memory that I have of her.

I guess that subconsciously you have the choice as to what your final vision is before you die. You may not know it, but everything you've ever seen must be stored somewhere within the brain, it's just finding it again that makes memory so unreliable.

My final vision was this: a light-haired woman with the brightest smile I have ever seen was holding me up to a bathroom mirror. We could see each other, including our own selves. I couldn't have been more than four and a half feet tall, but my fuzzy brown hair was the same, including my blue eyes. And there was something wrong with my head. A huge chunk of gauze was patched over my temple.

The woman, on the other hand, was tall and sleek, kind of like the models you read about in the magazines under your bed that nobody is supposed to see. She looked so happy it was contagious. Her eyes reflected the light almost perfectly, making them seem a much lighter shade of blue than my own. She was amazing.

But dreams only last for so long, even in death, and as my dream ended, I could remember the last thing I said to her over 10 years ago.

_I love you, Mommy._

Slowly, I surrendered myself to fate, and prepared to die a much happier man.

* * *

Short wasn't it? I'm not a big fan of short chapters, but all of this happens so fast that I wouldn't dare try to stretch it out. I promise the next one to be much longer, and full of detail. Time is beginning to wind down for Jack, but has Jack already cleaned his clock? Find out next time in capitulo nueve! 


	10. 9: I turn my collar to the cold and damp

Chapter 9-I turn my collar to the cold and damp

* * *

Once again, Gil Grissom was dreaming. The past twenty four hours had finally drained enough energy from him that sitting still for more than ten minutes caused him to nearly collapse. But this time it was different. The haunting dream that infected his sleep was replaced by a new, even more frightening illusion.

It began much in the same way the first did. His father, Roy, came bounding in the front door with a large suitcase, but he didn't look the same. When he left, Roy was a healthy, middle aged man. Two years later, he looked like their near invalid neighbor. And he didn't smile the evil smile that has plagued Grissom's dreams since childhood.

Gilly, who was starting to get tired of the name, looked much different as well. His sandy brown hair was beginning to curl at the ends, as if he had been hanging his head out the car window for too long. His thick, misdiagnosed glasses were replaced with thinner frames, proving that his eyes weren't the size of magnifying lenses.

His mother still retained her youthful appearance. She was happy to see her husband, but cautious upon approaching him. She did not fear his anger, she feared his touch. Any sudden movement he made caused the both of them to jump in alarm. It was like walking on the edge of a balcony with random gusts of wind.

A week or so later and the same on-edge feeling persisted amongst the family. Dinners were always quiet, with not so much as a glance between Gil and his father. He often looked to his mother, though, searching for some inclination as to how long he would stay _this _time. But she barely looked up from her plate as well.

One night Roy decided to talk to his son. Being in and out of the home since Gil was two had never really given them a chance to bond. But tonight was going to be the night, or there would be no more opportunity for either of them to get to know each other.

So they sat in the living room for twenty minutes without saying a word. The blank walls were not as bare as the blank expressions that narrated their faces. The seconds ticked by in pure silence. If Gil wanted to know what Mom dealt with every passing minute of her life, the silence between him and his father surely answered it.

Finally, Roy broke. "Look, Gil," he began, "We have to get over this. You're my son, and I want to get to know you better. I've missed you and your mother, and-"

"And what? You want to come home again? You want to try and make us a normal family? You've had your chance, Roy, and every time you've managed to screw it up," Gil shouted, his face reddening with anger. Roy looked down at his feet and sighed. But he couldn't give up hope now.

"You know, when you were born, I thought to myself 'He's the most perfect baby I've ever seen. A little small of course, but just wait till he's older. He'll probably shock the hell out of everybody.' I still think that, Gil. You're the smartest kid I know, and I'm sure you didn't get that from me. I've often wanted to just come home and have an old-fashioned game of catch with my son, but I know now that's never going to happen."

Roy ended his soliloquy and slumped back on the couch, a broken, excommunicated loner whose only friend was a bottle sitting in the refrigerator. His eyes looked tired, along with the rest of his body.

Gil wrenched his hands in nervous caution, thinking about what to say next. A wrong word could cause a ripple effect of arguments that can only escalate into something violent. He was in enemy territory now.

He looked towards the door. This could be his only chance for escape. Gil had to leave, he had to find Mom, he had to get as far away from his father as possible. But how?

Roy's eyes darted back and forth as he followed Gilly's line of vision. He could see where this was going. There was only one final chance to set things right. But how?

Gil stood and made towards the door as Roy began to protest. They were both on their feet, each wanting to put in a final word, but not daring to interrupt the other. Suddenly Gil turned around once more and raised his hands

_"We don't have a football."

* * *

_

Grissom jumped as a hand was placed on his shoulder, tapping lightly, not sure if it wanted to wake him or not. He turned his dozing face to Catherine Willows as a beam of sunlight hammered into his eyeball. _I get the picture, I'm awake, dammit!_

Yawning, he checked his watch. 11:32 in the morning. Less than four hours of sleep in the past 38 hours. It felt like he hadn't slept at all, and the dream was nothing more than a figment of his imagination. Was he dreaming of sleep?

"Morning, Sherlock. I figured that instead of the usual cocaine you could work on this kid's case to pass the time. How does that sound?" she asked, unusually cheerful despite the ungodly hour. Catherine slapped the manila folder on Grissom's knee while retrieving his glasses from their resting place on the floor.

"Holmes took cocaine because of boredom, if you remember correctly. And besides, I would've passed the time with a little more sleep, but that's out of the picture now. What are you-" He stopped mid-sentence as he remembered where he was.

Bare, white walls. Machines steadily beeping. People running back and forth. Sterilization. Shouts of anguish, tears of joy. Redemption and Hell.

He was in a hospital. Doctors were bustling about trying to answer patient's needs, while Lysol was busy attacking his nostrils. It smelled a lot like the lab. Yet it made him think: At one end there were people dying, at the other, some proud parents are having their first child. Two very opposing extremes.

But Jack was in Limbo.

He lay on a small bed in a very small room guarded by a lone officer. Straps held his arms in place while thick bandages covered the skin. His face was ridiculously pale, to the point that he almost looked blue. And he was cold. Icy cold.

Jack was neither dead nor alive. He breathed, but not on his own. Tubes ran in and out of him like an intestinal maze, while blood circulated from a plastic bag dangling three feet above him. He was the definition of a bionic man.

"Jesus, what did he do?" Catherine asked, noticing the machinery that pulsed steadily at a high octave. She picked up his chart lying at the foot of the bed and glanced over it. "A spring? How can anybody commit suicide using a bed spring?"

"Ask him when he wakes up. He's certainly a very resourceful kid," Grissom replied, recalling his own brush with death only hours ago. It was true, though; Jack would win the award for most unusual suicide method.

Opening the file, Grissom poured over the dozens of pictures that made up the bulk of the folder. Gruesome scenes of blood spatter and bits of brain matter had congealed on the thick concrete floor, leaving the dark red shadow of a young man who was not much older than Jack. The body of Tyler Benson lay at odd, random angles that were impossible for any normal human to bend to without snapping a limb. Grissom had never seen anything like it.

Catherine was busy looking over Jack's history, stopping occasionally to glance at the pictures. As far as she could tell, he had been a normal child (or as normal as he could be under the circumstances); there was no history of depression or any serious mental disorders. He made average grades at a school that could probably care less about him. Yes, Jack could be considered the poster-child of urban adoption.

But there was something strange about him. Jack's counselors have often described him as 'anxious' and 'fidgety', once to the point of testing him for Tourette's Syndrome. He has expressed on numerous occasions the feeling of guilt, yet there was no apparent reason for it.

Other than the evidence filed last night, there was not much the team could work with. The hair had been run through DNA, but there was no record in the database. There were no useful fingerprints they could use to prove or disprove Jack's innocence, and his little…remark didn't help his case much either. It was impossible to go back to the scene now; the only thing they could rely on was pictures.

It was an average office with average gymnasium equipment. Soccer balls and baseballs lined a wall, while a championship football had a space all to itself. Grissom stared at the football for a few moments, thinking wildly about past events.

The day his father died. Suddenly the vision was clear in his mind again. Every detail was as plain as when he was there. The radio was on again, playing a haunting tune that was nearly banned from the station after they played it.

Gil went in search of Mom, never stopping to think how horrible the rest of the day would unfold. Instead he found his father standing in front of a bathroom mirror. In one hand were two small, white pills that were no bigger than grains of rice; in the other he held a tall glass of water, swirling the clear liquid in the glass, preparing to down it. Gil stepped forward.

"What are those for?" he asked, indifference flooding his voice. Roy snapped his head in Gil's direction just as the glass reached his lips. A flash of anger darted through his eyes, but was instantly replaced with the same forlorn expression first seen only a week ago as Roy returned from wherever he went.

"It's nothing; just for headaches." Gil shrugged his shoulders as he turned to go, catching the last bit of the song before it became inaudible:

_Yes, I'm lonely…Want to die…_

An hour later Gil returned to the living room, creeping in slowly as not to disturb his father. It was known that Roy was a heavy sleeper, and often slept through Mom's Revielle of an alarm clock. It was as if he could completely turn off his senses while he slept and forget about the rest of the world. If only it was that easy.

Gil sat in an armchair that easily engulfed him. The day had gone by in a blur, as if Father Time was trying to erase the day of its existence. For all Grissom could care, Father Time can do whatever the hell he wants with it. July 17th. If only it wasn't there.

Mom had been mixing drinks in the kitchen for the past twenty minutes. Alcohol was not her favorite drink by choice, but since Roy returned, she often went for it over the usual glass of water. She was a different person when _he _was here. If only he didn't return.

The rest happened very slowly, like a slideshow. Mom came in with the tray of drinks and attempted to wake Roy, but he never moved. She flipped the light switch a number of times, tapped his forehead (something he abhorred), shook his arms. But there was nothing. She stopped shaking him for a few seconds, grabbing at Roy's wrist, growing impatient as she failed to find what she was looking for.

She dropped his wrist long enough to tell Gil what to do, but Gil wasn't there. He had gone automatically into the bathroom, searching for the medication Roy had taken earlier. Mom was the only one who took regular medication, but she kept it upstairs in her dresser. There was only one prescription bottle left sitting on the sink.

An empty bottle of Vicoden. 500mg. As Gil turned to leave, though, he noticed sitting on the hamper a single, brand-new football.

If only…if only…

The next time Grissom awoke, it was to the sound of blaring machines and high-pitched alarms. Catharine was shaking him much more violently this time, screaming into his ear, doing her best to wake him up. Grissom was visibly startled by her hands, shoving them away and sliding his chair back a few paces. Satisfied, she ran out the door.

It didn't assimilate instantly that something was wrong. Grissom heard it, but nothing registered. He looked back and forth as a light in the hallway blinked rapidly, tossing beams of red rays all over the floor, splashing nurse's faces with demonic orange hues.

Suddenly his mind clicked and he was in the hospital again, shaking the sleep from his eyes. He turned to the right, only to find the source of the confusion and chaos.

Jack was convulsing uncontrollably, flailing his arms, trying to be free of the straps that bound him to the bed in case such an episode as this occurred. His eyes were ablaze with both panic and fever, while his head darted back and forth. The heart monitor was beeping madly, along with every other alarm in the hospital.

Both occupants of the room were terrified. They shared a common fear, though; Jack for his own life, Grissom for Jack's. The animation in the room was electric, alive with machine and human energy. Movement was all over the place. They both just wanted to yell 'stop', but at totally different things.

It wasn't a normal seizure, though. In most, brain activity runs off the chart, but Jack's was very flat, seldom varying above or below the danger lines. To contrast this, his heart rate was running in circles, the thick green line shaking as if in an earthquake.

The bed was beginning to creak from the constant tugging by the straps. Hinges were popping left and right, while blood was beginning to seep through the bandages. Thick scarlet spots dotted his arm while beads of sweat streamed down his face. Jack was going to explode from the inside.

It was a dangerous thing to do, but Grissom had no other choice. Grabbing Jack by the shoulders, he pushed nearly all his weight on the young man's thin frame. Seconds passed with nearly no result, but gradually the spasms began to slow. After only a minute, they stopped completely. Jack carefully opened his eyes.

_"What was that all about?"_ asked Grissom, cautiously undoing the straps. Jack shook his head, trying to be rid of the intense weight he felt behind his eyes. He felt the enormous pressure covering the rest of his body, especially in his arms. Try as he might, he couldn't raise them. Slowly, he fingerspelled everything.

_"I was scared."_

Doctors came rushing in, but stopped at the door, relieved to see that everything was under control. It was too early in the morning for anything such as this. Catherine shoved her way past them and sat next to Grissom, reminding him of their earlier conversation.

_"How'd you do it, Jack?"_ Jack took his time, trying to remember every detail. His blue eyes searched the room, as if watching the events on a screen.

_"I kicked out a few of the bedsprings, found the sharpest one, and went to town."_ Fine time to tell jokes. Grissom repeated his phrase for Catherine's benefit, causing her to snicker. She was beginning to like this kid. He could teach Grissom a thing or two about his sense of humor.

They chatted for a few minutes more about random things; school, work, family. All three gradually began to warm up to each other, though careful not to touch on any personal subjects. Grissom was especially careful not to ask about Jack's name again. When the conversation was beginning to wear thin, Grissom asked about the day Tyler Benson was murdered.

_"I cleaned everything like I usually do with this brush that's older than dirt; hardly any bristles on it. You'll have better luck with a paper towel than with that thing. Anyways, I made sure there wasn't anything I missed, and then left."_

_"Was anyone else there?"_

_"I waved to Brian before I turned off the lights. That's about it."_Jack was beginning to gain use of his hands again, speeding up the conversation and adding a bit more color to his face. The blood that dotted his bandages was now beginning to darken as it congealed under the cloth. Jack's probably going to need new stitches. Catherine asked if he would tell a little more about Brian.

_"He's very short, with thick glasses and a pudgy nose. If my school ever did 'The Lord of the Flies', he'd be a good Piggy." _Jack yawned deeply, trying his best to fight off the sedatives running through his system. As he closed his eyes, Grissom nodded towards Catherine, signaling to her that it was time to go. They both needed some sleep.

Gathering the scattered pictures, they both headed towards Catherine's car, the bright sunlight burning their eyes once more. There was nothing important to discuss as they both climbed into the front seats. Catherine's stomach rumbled with hunger. She turned to Grissom, but stopped just as she was about to speak.

He was already asleep.

* * *

Yeah, so that's chapter 9. I'm starting to lose faith in my stories (I have another one going as well), they're not being read like in the good old days...sigh...Oh well, we'll see what happens in the next chapters. Until 10 (If I haven't given up on this fic til then)...


	11. 10: When my eyes were stabbed

Chapter 10-But my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light...

* * *

Eighteen hours later Grissom woke, blindly stabbing at his alarm clock, its excruciatingly loud bell buzzing in his ears. The blinds of his apartment had been pulled down though light still cascaded through the cracks. What Grissom called home could have easily been mistaken for Castle Dracula.

As he clambered out of bed, still clad in his work clothes, voices resonated from within his kitchen, laughing and chatting without a care in the world. Styrofoam boxes were opened and closed, and the scent of fresh coffee wafted throughout the house. The feeling was warm and almost nostalgic; a feeling Grissom did not want to interrupt.

Cracking the door open slowly, he watched the rest of the CSI's talk over a light dinner. It was difficult to understand what they were saying, but from the occasional laugh or quick smile, he could tell they were having a good time. Grissom wanted to join them, but he was apprehensive to ruin the moment. It was the first time he had seen anyone laugh for days.

Their chatter continued for a long while before anyone noticed that he was watching. They motioned him towards the table, shoved a box in front of him, and continued as if Grissom had been part of the conversation the entire time.

"So I waked straight up to Lindsey's teacher and I said 'Listen you; next time you want to tell Lindsey that my job is useless, I'll let you stare at a dismembered corpse for three hours, and then we'll talk'. He was so dumbfounded I just grabbed Lindsey and left, with the rest of her class still staring at the teacher. He's still there for all I know," Catherine forced under hysterical choking gags.

The rest of the crew collapsed into convulsing fits of laughter, wiping away tears, feeling every spasm from the toes. Grissom couldn't help but smile, though he had no idea what the story was beforehand. His grin quickly faded as he thought back to the previous morning, and shame burned on the back of his neck.

How could he have done it? There were people who loved him, that he knew, but he had wanted to be rid of it all. It was a stupid act, and now Grissom regretted ever putting his team through it, even though they didn't know what his original intentions were. Now they would never look at him the same way again.

Manila files were brought out while the boxes were cleared away, each member receiving a portion of the case that was their specialty. Grissom was given the pictures from the morning before, the ones that had spilled onto the ground as he dozed into another nightmare. They were out of order once again, and he spent the better part of five minutes putting them back in their original places.

They all looked familiar; blood in a thick pool on a concrete floor, small yellow mazes of evidence markers, a twisted body. Nothing really surprised him. Warrick furrowed his eyebrows.

"Check this out. This Tyler kid had Ehrlichiosis and RSD."

"That would explain why he was such a jerk," Catherine aimlessly replied. Both were incurable diseases with very different effects. RSD left the patient with extremely painful joints, while Ehrlichiosis was transferred by deer ticks. His family must've been hunters or outdoorsmen of some kind.

Grissom didn't bother with idle chat as his attention was focused on the picture that yesterday triggered the nightmare of his father. Something was wrong with it, a piece was missing, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The equipment was where it should have been, papers were on the desk, the sink was as clean as Jack had…wait.

There was only one weapon at the scene, and that was the bungee chord, but what would have caused such massive head trauma? An extremely blunt object could only do that much damage. And what about the neck wound? Surely the chord wouldn't have been able to rip through flesh like that.

Some things were starting to come together in Grissom's mind, but none proved or disproved Jack's innocence. The only thing that would tie him into the case at all was the fact that he was team janitor. It was possible he had some sort of accomplice, or that he had been duped into it. Grissom could play it all in his head as if he was watching a movie.

The part of the accomplice was blurry and undefined, with little detail. He or she was shorter than Jack, that was clear. Jack and Tyler played themselves. The whole thing flashed in bits and pieces like a slideshow, overdubbed by dialogue.

_"Hey, dummy, clean this for me, will ya?...Hey!" The figure probably grabbed Jack to get his attention, startling him. "I said 'clean this'." Jack would've been confused as to why there was blood all over a bat, but he did as he was told, unable to ask questions. The murderer was smart, but he taunted at Jack's inability to hear what he was doing. He purposefully did it behind Jack's back to put him at the scene, and gave him the bat to clear his fingerprints. Whoever the other person was left, turning the lights off as he went, causing Jack to trip over the body in the darkness (or terrify him), but that was where his game ended. Jack didn't turn the light back on and simply left, leaving the body unnoticed. _

The rest of Grissom's team had all completely stopped what they were doing and now sat staring at their senior officer. His face was totally blank, but the eyes darted like watching something. They feared that he had slipped into some mutant form of sleepwalking. Fingers waved in front of his face, snapping him into attention.

Shaking his head, he returned to the picture. There were a few potholes in his story, but there was still pieces left to be discovered. He was reminded of his favorite quote from the very first Holmes novel he had read as a young man: "It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts." But that was coming from a man who was more like a machine than a human.

He checked the picture once more before tossing it aside. Nothing more could be gathered from it at the present, but it is possible there could be something later down the road. Little things usually make or break the case. Grissom spoke suddenly without realizing it.

"Has Brian been called in for questioning yet?" The team nearly jumped in surprise. None had expected his voice, and what they heard didn't sound like the voice they knew. It wasn't as cold, though much sadder than before, and very quiet. He sounded as if a thick veil was covering him and he was being strangled by it.

They all shook their heads. Nick looked back and forth, afraid that he might have missed something. Two days were left until the trial, and they were yet to interrogate a suspect. They had missed an important aspect of the entire case. Grissom's eyes seemed to lighten at this, renewing his interest.

"Then what the hell are we waiting around for? We have a case to solve," he said, jumping out of his seat, the usual "alacrity" returning to his face. The file he had been mulling over had been left on the table, temporarily forgotten by all as they rushed out the door.

* * *

An hour later, at roughly 12.30 in the afternoon, Grissom once again sat across from a nervous looking teenager, nearly staring him down. Catherine stood in the corner once more, watching for any signs of a potential breakdown. The younger man was chewing at his nails.

"Now, Brian, I want you to answer a few questions for me. Anything you say could be held against you in a court of law, but you have the right not to answer if you don't want to. Understand?" Brian nodded his head. "Good. How do you know Jack?"

Brian's left eye twitched unexpectedly. He tried his best not to show any like or dislike, instead tensed his face. His glasses slid to the tip of his nose and he shoved them back with enough force to nearly take his eye out.

"From the baseball team. He's okay, but really shy most of the time." Grissom scribbled a few notes about the young man's behavior rather than what he was saying.

"Does the fact that he's deaf ever frustrate you?" Grissom was trying not to sound as if he was blaming the teen, but his eyes almost pointed the finger for him. Brian leaned back in the chair and kneaded his fingers together, thinking of what to say.

"Not really. He seems to understand us most of the time, but the coach yells at him a lot. Sometimes calls him names. The other kids make fun of him occasionally but he laughs it off."

"Did he ever get into a fight with, say, Tyler Benson?"

"Once that I know of. Tyler stole my glasses and Jack tackled him. It was a good fight, but Tyler strangled him 'til he turned blue and then it was over." Brian's face lit up with pride as the fight replayed in his mind. His glasses slipped once again, but he failed to notice. Instead he looked around the room, noting the two way mirror. Little did he know that behind it, five other people were watching him, including the lab psychologist.

"Did _you _ever get into a fight with Tyler?" Grissom asked, nodding his head in Brian's direction. The younger man shook his head and looked to the floor, obviously embarrassed.

"He made fun of me more than Jack. I'm legally blind, you know, and without my glasses I can't see anything farther than a foot away, but I can still hear him. At least when he made fun of Jack, Jack couldn't hear." Brian's glasses fogged up momentarily, and he rubbed them on the end of his shirt. Grissom handed over his own lens-cleaner and waited. Brian spoke again. "How do you know Jack?"

"He's another suspect, but I'm under oath not to discuss him with you."

Brain's eyes flashed with content. A sinister grin came over his face, as if he was calculating some diabolical plan. Grissom noted his reaction and looked to the two-way mirror, cocking his eyebrow. A tap came from the other side in affirmation, but Brian didn't think on it. He looked to Grissom coldly.

"I knew he did it. What else can he do all day in his head but think about killing people? Who knows, if he walks, I could be next. Maybe it's a good thing he's put in the slammer early, that saves a lot more murders to be investigated. He always looks suspicious when he talks to himself."

"He talks to himself?"

"Yeah. I guess it's because there aren't any other dummies in the school to talk to, but when he does, he looks guilty of something. He always uses his hands, too, like he's making fun of everybody else because we can't understand him."

Grissom struggled to control his anger, nearly clutching his chest in attempt to slow his breathing. Brian was beginning to infuriate him in his ignorance. How can this kid, who can barely see the tip of own nose, taunt another boy behind his back, even though they share nearly the same deck? Grissom averted the conversation into something less cynical. "What does it look like he's saying, Brian?"

Brian thought for a moment before raising his hands. He tapped his fist on his breastplate as he spoke.

"He's always rubbing at his chest, so every time he does it the teacher sends him to the nurse to get his heart checked."

Grissom had a vague sense of what the young man was talking about, so he repeated the action with precision, throwing Brian off guard.

"That's exactly it. How do you know?"

Gil almost didn't acknowledge him. His eyes retreated into the lackluster glaze that Nick and Warrick had seen the morning before when they found him sitting in the corner. A deep sadness came over his expression. He shoved the chair back and headed towards the door, but turned at the last moment.

"It means 'I'm sorry.'" Closing the door, he gave Brass the cue to finish the interrogation as he returned to his office. This case was hopeless, and he feltthat he was just going to let another human being down. The only problem with this human was that his life depended on it. MaybeGrissom shouldn't have wasted the bullet after all…

* * *

So I'm still debating whether or not to finish this story, and if I do, whether or not to wrap it up in the next few chapters. My other story is failing miserably, and I don't think that one will continue. The prequal to it is very sad, though; I'm quite proud of it. As for this one, we'll see. We haven't heard from Jack in awhile... 


	12. 11: That split the night

Chapter 11-That split the night, and touched the sounds of silence

* * *

I was somewhere in a Las Vegas hospital when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I'm feeling a bit lightheaded, maybe we should stop the train." And then I realized that I had been reading way too many Hunter S. Thompson novels.

There wasn't much to feel, due in part to the enormous amounts of painkillers inching along my gut. John Lennon must've felt this way when he thought he was stuck in a burning elevator. Maybe I'm no longer Jack; maybe I am now Raoul Duke.

Nothing looked normal, as if it was all out of focus. After staring at a band of mice marching across the ceiling for an hour, I was expecting an Indian chief to start ceremoniously dancing at the foot of the bed. Alas, there was no dancing. No, only lizards that ran across the floor at odd intervals.

I tried to sit up, to shake the buzzed feeling out of my head, but straps were holding me down. It was true then, I had entered into a strange realm of medical bondage. But I can't stay here; this is lizard country!

A machine went off when I pulled too hard on a strap. The loud beeping scared the hell out of me, which set off more machines, turning it all into a vicious cycle of alarms before a doctor finally yanked the plug on everything.

He was a huge man, with an exaggerated nose (which turned out to be another side effect of the painkillers), and a fuzzy mustache that could hold six different species of bird. I instantly pleaded with my eyes, but he only looked confused. Wiggling my hands about, he nodded as if an original thought had struck him, but didn't remove the leather straps. This was going to be a long night.

His nametag said 'Sven', but he certainly didn't sound Swedish to me. No, he sounded more like Captain Kirk after an acid trip.

"So…Jack, is it?...How do you feel?" he said, eyeing my chart and whistling at all the expensive drugs the social workers were going to have to scrounge up the money for. Sven waited for me to answer, and when I didn't, kept the conversation going anyway.

"You know…you're lucky to be alive…The head Doc had to nearly give you a complete oil change…"

Excuse me, but what is the idea of suicide? I'm not lucky to be anything. Nobody _asked _Jack if he wanted to survive. Nobody considered what Jack _wanted _to do. For all I can remember, the only reason Jerry/Tom came to my cell was because of a nervous foot twitch. Or was it? By now I was already too fed up with Sven to let him continue his attempts at conversation. Instead I made a gesture as if scribbling on paper.

"Something to write with? Hold on, I'll get something, bud."

_Bud_? Since when was I on such friendly terms with this Sven? What has happened since I was last awake? Oh God, what have they done to me! The mice were marching again, and I began to shake so bad I thought I was going to rattle off the bed, had it not been for the straps. Sven shoved the paper underneath my hand..

"So…Jack (He said it as if it was a code name)…why'd you do it, man?"

Fair question. An even better one would be why the hell your parents would name you 'Sven'. What was I going to tell him? That I was thrown in jail for a crime I didn't commit, and that my sentence would more than likely be death anyway? Maybe it was the lizards, but I found myself scribbling the most random thing I was thinking of.

"_What would Jesus do?" _What the hell did that mean! I was in no control of myself anymore. It felt like watching some deranged drug addict in a support group.

I suddenly realized something as I sat writing away to Sven: had I said something in a semi-conscious, unreal state that made this random doctor want to talk to me? Maybe I spilled my guts (which were being eaten away in any case). Maybe it was all over, and I'd slept through the trial. There were so many questions that I couldn't ask.

Stopping in the middle of whatever sentence I was writing, I tried to recall all that had happened before I fell asleep. I remember Fishy and his girlfriend stopping by…panicking…ripping open my arms again…bleeding profusely…and finally talking for a little bit. I don't recall anything happening after that. How long had it been?

Let's do the math. Today's calendar read March 14th. If there had been four days left until the trial, which was scheduled the day before my birthday, that would make an estimated almost-time-of-death somewhere around seven o'clock on the morning of the 13th. Fishy didn't stop by until eleven or so…Damn, I had been sleeping for roughly 35 hours.

Damn! That only meant there were two days left! _Tomorrow_ was my birthday! That means…that means…holy shit, I'm screwed. What have I done? Better yet, what have I _not _done! I've seen all those cop shows. The justice system is like, forty years behind, I'll never get out of prison.

Maybe something weird will happen, like in that Charles Dickens novel. Maybe there's someone who looks like me and will bust me out of prison only to sacrifice himself for a good cause (I can't remember why he did it in the book, though). But that's wishful thinking…illegal too.

Whatever I was doing in that short span of time was freaking out Sven (who's name was actually Steven; these drugs are crazy). All of a sudden in comes a huge nurse with a gigantic needle full of hazy green goo that was probably straight from the set of a Frankenstein movie.

There was a momentary struggle as three other people came in to keep me from moving around. I thought the Cop Triplets had returned and were setting out to crack open my skull this time, but it was only the man who drives food around on a mini golf-cart and a few other nurses. Sven watched from the sidelines, an evil grin plastered on his face that was in danger of stretching to his ear lobes.

So, what do you do when there are three people holding onto you as if in a sacrificial cult, trying to give you a shot of what looks like moldy tequila? Naturally, I fought back with every ounce of my being that wasn't stoned. That battle didn't last long.

She shoved the needle into my arm without a second thought of where. The pain was unreal, and creeped up my forearm like a cluster of tarantulas. I scratched and clawed at my shoulder as it molded into the rest of my body, causing every inch of me to go numb, except for my head.

That was a different experience. I felt as if I was back in the prison, bleeding in pools, and hoping the euphoric feeling would never end. This time, my happiness was replaced with the same terrible dread that I may never wake up again.

Suddenly, I understood everything. They've given me the injection! Screw waiting until midnight, to hell with a final statement. No, the feds bypassed all that and went ahead with the sentence. But I don't want to die!

I don't want…I do-…

* * *

Jim Brass was at his wits end with Brian. After Grissom stormed out of the interrogation room, the kid was too stunned to say a word. That or he was purposely keeping quiet. The odd mischievous grin was yet to disappear from his face.

The two had been at if for over an hour, Brass posing questions, and Brian retorting with a simple 'lawyer' crack. Frustration was coming to a breaking point and there would be no telling when someone would finally split. It was all a matter of time.

"I'm going to ask you once more; were you at school the day Benson was murdered?" Brass seethed, hands nearly embedded into the chair. Brian merely scoffed.

"That other guy said I didn't have to answer if I didn't want to."

"It would be in your best interest if you do. If you don't say anything, we'll just assume it means 'yes'."

Brian's face registered such fury that the top of his neck turned beet red. His heart rate began to race, causing his breath to hiss between his teeth. It was a psychological game they were playing, he knew that much, but there was no way to escape it. Slowly, he nodded.

"Good, we're finally getting somewhere. You said you left before Jack that day?"

Brian nearly giggled, noting the lack of subtlety in the question. Wasn't it obvious? If he had never been interrogated before, how could they have a previous statement?

"No, I never said that, but you're correct; I left before Jack did."

Brass had to give the kid credit; he's certainly been paying attention. There had to be a way to set up a trap. This game will drag on far too long if Brass didn't at least try.

"That's interesting, because Jack said that he waved to you on his way out."

Ha! That had to have left a mark on his ego, Brass thought to himself. But Brian didn't waver. His smirk never faltered for a second as he thought of more diabolical answers.

"You'd say anything to get out of a death sentence, wouldn't you?"

Damn it, he's good. There had to be something buried under that awful grin that would upset him enough to cause a slip. But what was it?

Brass looked the kid over once. Something about him stood out, but it wasn't obvious. Such was the case in _Jekyll and Hyde._ Hyde had a deformity that nobody could place; they just had a common chill run through their bones. What was Brian's?

Minutes of awkward silence followed, but neither acknowledged it. They just sat staring, sizing each other up. The crew stationed behind the two-way mirror began to believe something was wrong, but before they could enquire Brass's head shot up. Eureka.

He motioned for Catherine to step in. Brass mirrored Brian's sinister grin, causing a rift in the boy's optimism. For the first time since his arrival, Brian was confused.

Catherine shuffled in, lugging a large DNA kit behind her. A full arsenal of swabs and tweezers filled the suitcase, lining it with more tools than a doctor had to operate with. Yet each had its specific purpose, the only problem was never knowing when it would be needed.

She raised her eyes in question to Brass, who pulled her over to the side, out of an audible range.

"Look at his eyebrows; they don't match his hair," he said, acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Catherine nodded for show, but she was still apprehensive. Giving Brian a look, she too noticed the contrast in hair colors.

They returned to the table, Brass's grin all too apparent. Catherine opened the kit, digging about for a pair of tweezers and an evidence bag. Brian frowned, unsure as to what was going on.

"Just sit still, kid, and you won't feel much. We need a sample of your DNA." Brass was pleased with himself. He'd finally found a trap that could possible break the case if his guess was correct. This was it.

Catherine found the tweezers and reached for Brian's head. At the last moment, he jerked away, his glasses nearly thrown from his face. He pushed them back in defiance.

"I want to see a warrant."

Brass nearly fell over. In his push to beat a sixteen year old kid, he failed to secure a warrant. His ego was thrown to the ground, and he probably wouldn't hear the end of how a high-schooler outwitted the great interrogator Jim Brass, whose very appearance made the toughest men crack down the middle.

Brian was sent home with a summons for tomorrow morning. The young man looked much taller leaving than when he had first arrived, his confidence lifting him up. Little did he know that Brass had a trick up his sleeve.

"We could've had him, Jim! How could you be so—what are you smiling at?" Catherine could hardly see what was so funny.

"We'll get him tomorrow. Isn't it interesting that someone can have bleach blond hair, but rusty _red _eyebrows?..."

* * *

I hope you enjoyed that one; 'twas entertaining to write about an LSD trip. Finally, the mystery is winding down (I thought it would never actually _begin_ in the first place). I'm hoping that by the time the story ends I'll have atleast 50 reviews. That'd be nice. But if not, atleast I tried. I'm pretty sure the story will be over withint the next 4-5 chapters, so review like mad!


	13. 12: And in the naked light I saw

Chapter 12-And in the naked light I saw

* * *

_-nt want to die…_

I didn't wake up all at once. Instead, things just sort of…dripped into consciousness. Doctors were buzzing about, random nurses stuck their heads in occasionally; I simply laid there as if the bed was a protective bubble, and any voluntary movement would cause my little space to pop.

It never occurred to me that two other people were in the room, and were nearly yanking my arm off to get my attention. At the time, I thought I was still in the crazy psychedelic dream world and the people were nothing more than Indian chiefs smoking a peace pipe between them. I waited patiently for the dance, but it never came. Damn.

One of the two people was what you could call a "wet-behind-his-entire-backside" lawyer. He hardly looked any older than I was, and his nervous gaze didn't help. The other merely served as bodyguard in case I happened to flip out and go Bruce Lee on their asses. That wasn't a bad idea.

There was no hired interpreter for me (somebody obviously didn't read the file), so when he started speaking I gave him my best 'who the hell are you' look. He waited for an answer, and I waited for him to stop being such an _orto_ and give me some paper. That pretty much settles things; my case has been screwed into the ground.

Straps were no longer tying me down, so I showed him the sign for _paper_. The lawyer, whose name was Ernie Dover, looked at me as if I was having some obsessive-compulsive breakdown. Seeing that idea go down the tubes, I tried writing something, like I did with Sven.

This seemed to work, and he gave me a sheet of paper and a heavy company pen that could've easily been used as a tomahawk. I sat up slowly, giving enough time for my head to stop spinning. Ernie continued speaking.

"Nice to meet you, Jack. My name is Mr. Dover No, it's not; you're the human form of that Sesame Street character. I'll be presenting your case tomorrow as defendant. We tried to speak with you yesterday, but it didn't seem that you were up to it."

That explains the drove of lizard people in my room yesterday. Of course, I wasn't fully conscious at the time, so everything looked like it was straight out of George Harrison's head. Hell, I wasn't too sure I was fully conscious now. In any case, I let Ernie continue his speech.

"First, we need to get a little more acquainted. Would you mind telling me a little about yourself?" said Ernie, not expecting much. I sat back for a moment to consider my options.

I could tell him the truth, that I'm a narcissistic liar with a terrible case of inferiority complex. I'm a selective mute who only pretends to be deaf to get away with things (Ha! That's really helping me out now). I can't remember who I once was, where I came from, or even my name. That would make a good story.

No, I'd rather be like Victor Frankenstein and give up my one chance to say what makes me feel guilty all the time, why I have panic attacks, why I hate my life and wish it were over. God, I hated that book.

Instead, I wrote down the basic things that have nothing to do with my life. Baseball, television, math, books, and building random junk I would consider being art. I got a little carried away and started doodling on the side, but Ernie read over my shoulder and continued his questioning.

"It seems you lead a rather busy life. Does the fact that you're deaf ever stop you from doing these things? I mean, surely lip-reading must get in the way." He suddenly turned pale, remembering something rather important. "You can lip-read, can't you?"

I scribbled something down on the paper. _I've understood you so far, haven't I?_ Jesus, I'm such a smart-ass. _Anyways, no, it hasn't. It's annoying when my baseball coach talks as if he's in slow-motion, though; he looks like an idiot._

Ernie laughed, relieved that his mistake was forgotten. The bodyguard had weaseled his way into a corner chair, trying not to show the boredom on his face. He looked like Fred Flinstone's stunt double in the way he crossed his legs, obscuring most of his face with his huge foot. We'll call him Freddy for clarification purposes.

"What were you doing on the day of the murder?" Ernie asked gently. It was obvious then that the lawyer appointed to me has never worked a murder case before. The closest he's probably ever come to something like this was a dog that was run over by a truck. Yeah, my hopes are dashed.

I began to write my story, starting with baseball practice. _That day Benson made fun of Brian because of the way he writes things. He keeps his nose about a half inch from the paper. Tyler kept saying things like 'How are you supposed to see the game if you can't see what you're writing?'. I sat next to him, just in case Tyler started pushing him around. When the coach told him to knock it off, he called it a day._

_I stayed behind to clean things up, like I usually do. It took awhile to get all the mud off the bats, so I was a little late leaving. When I finally left, Benson walked by and shoved me against the wall. He said, 'Why are you always sticking up for that kid, dummy? Is it because he's as stupid as you are? Or is it because you have a _thing _for him? Why don't you go in there, wiggle your fingers around and tell your girlfriend to get out of here before I deck him, how does that _sound _to you?'_

_So, naturally, I shoved him back. We must've made a lot of noise, because the coach came out a few minutes later and pulled us apart. Brian watched from his desk in coach's office, but I don't think he knows what Tyler said; that or he was just ignoring it._

_After the skirmish, I walked to the library, waved to Sheila (the librarian), picked up a book, and began to read as she turned on the ra-_

Wait, how was I supposed to know she turned on the radio? I'm not even supposed to able to hear music! I scribbled the first thing I could think of.

_-ce. There was a NASCAR race that day; Dave told me about it. _I must've lost all the color in my face after that little screw-up. Ernie was looking into my eyes, making sure this whole story wasn't just the ravings of a fevered madman. He probably would've been right, anyway.

Freddy started messing with a lighter, igniting the flame and then passing his fingers through it. Dave does something similar, only sometimes he goes Evel Kneivel on everybody and waves the flame under his tongue. But watching this caveman made me realize how much I miss my little family, although technically we're no longer related.

I remember once when I was about fifteen, Alice asked about my life before the series of adoptions began. There wasn't much to tell, really. I lived on the charity of other people, and generally roamed the same part of town every night. Finding a good place to sleep was easy, since I could ball up into about a foot of square space and fit under just about anything. I always carried around a little knapsack that contained everything I owned, including a little blanket (Would you believe it has the Peanuts characters on it?), but I never found out what happened my little bag.

And that was it. I can't remember what my mother was like, although now I have a better picture of her. My dad is a total mystery to me; I can't remember him at all. It'd be weird if I had some brothers and/or sisters that I don't know about. That'd just be _too_ weird.

My reminiscence was beginning to scare Ernie, who was waving his hand around my face like a Japanese fan. He asked if I was doing alright, and if it was okay to continue, so I just absentmindedly nodded as if controlled by marionette string. Freddy was now watching me instead of the flame, which had grown dramatically into a streamer of fire. It was pretty cool-lookin'.

"Now, Jack, what about Tyler? I assume he wasn't a very popular guy. Did he bother you a lot, or just enough to annoy you?" asked Ernie carefully. He crossed his knees as if he'd gone into some sort of psychiatrist mode. This dude's freaky.

I raised my hands and spread them far apart, hoping Ernie was smarter than the television show he was based on. He nodded and scratched away on a memo pad with Nazi-like precision. I was reminded once more of Raoul Duke; _this man would be our secretary if the Nazi's had won the war…_

His next question was difficult for him to ask, so he took his time. "Jack, evidence suggests that you were present at the time of the murder. Can you account for your whereabouts at approximately 5.30 in the evening?"

Obviously Ernie hasn't been paying attention. I sighed deeply and nearly shoved the pen through the paper as I wrote.

_I already mentioned I was at the library. Sheila was-_

Ernie was reading over my shoulder again. After I had written the librarians name, he gave my arm a tap and shook his head.

"Sheila has been unreachable, therefore her testimony is void and she cannot be used as an alibi."

Something plummeted in my stomach then. Sheila was the only person who saw me that day. She is the only person who can prove me innocent with only a few words. Fine time for her to take a vacation.

_So the hour I spent reading 'Othello' is totally erased?_

I nearly threw the memo pad at Ernie in frustration, clenching my jaw and digging my fingernails into my palms. The pen I held was in danger of snapping. I would've given almost _anything_ to drive that pen into Ernie's neck, letting the blood run freely as mine did a few days ago. Instead, I folded my arms and allowed Ernie to shake me a couple of times before he finally gave in.

He sauntered towards the door and called his bodyguard over, telling him to put the lighter away before they were both kicked out. I listened half-heartedly as they held a conference, careful to turn their backs away from me. I heard every word of it, though their voices were difficult to distinguish while they were whispering.

"_This kid doesn't stand a chance…Maybe he's just being difficult…I doubt it; most guys with this amount of pressure stacked on top of them crack like walnut shells…This is going to look great on my record. The first murder case I get has already gone to hell…I'm pretty sure if he just admitted that he did it he'd get a lesser sentence…25 to life or the chair is a lesser sentence?...Well, it might strike the death penalty as a possibility…"_

I knew then that my life was over. No one was going to come to my rescue this time; there was no Joe to protect me, no Coach to tell the other kids to fob off and get back to practice, no Dave to plaster a chuck of meat against my eye when somebody decided to sock it. This was the end of Jack.

As my mood dramatically sank, I heard one of the men say something unusual. Something that, to this day, haunts me.

_Should we give it to him, then?_

Obviously, I had no idea what he was talking about, but it certainly grabbed my attention. To put up a show, I continued staring with an aggravated look and shoved away his hands when Ernie tapped my shoulder.

"Jack, look----look at me, damn it. I have something of yours that I believe you should see. You once knew a Richard Spielman, correct?" I nodded when I realized he was talking about Joe. "Good. Go get it, Frank. Now, Richard Spielman had a paragraph in his will stating that you were to receive something on your eighteenth birthday. It took awhile, but the bank finally released it when we showed them the will."

I stared at Ernie's lips while he spoke, and continued to do so long after he had finished, and continued still as a small parcel was placed on my bed. He shoved the package onto my lap, gesturing for me to open it. Then did I look away, and then did my heart skip enough to cause the machines to beep.

_My knapsack._

There it was on my lap, intact though the color was wearing thin. The bag was obviously a pre-schooler's, hardly any of it made of cloth, but rather a smooth plastic with a fading picture of Scooby-doo on the front. I was afraid to touch it, lest it fall apart and never be seen again.

It was Ernie who finally undid the zipper at the top and gingerly plucked random objects from the bag. My mind was barely feeding the information to my skull, and I could only watch lifelessly. This was all too much.

Among the objects were trinkets any six year old at the time would own: a yo-yo, the top of a soda bottle, two sets of car wheels held together by a tiny metal axel. But three other objects captured my attention completely.

A picture of a happy family, all three smiling at the camera. A tattered blanket dotted with various Peanuts characters. And a letter addressed to me, signed simply as 'To Jack.'

I opened this first, unnoticing the fact that Ernie and Frank had stepped out of the room. Slowly, unnecessarily slowly, I broke the glue on the flap and opened the letter. Joe's chunky cursive dripped down the page:

_Dear Jack,_

_I'm sorry this is the way I have to say goodbye, but I just couldn't say it to you in person. You may not have known it, but I kept up with you as you've gotten older, and I hope Ms. Baxter _(the widow I was living with at the time) _is keeping you happy._

_I've decided to give this back to you on your birthday for a reason. Hopefully by then you will understand. I kept it, praying that you would forget what had happened to your mom and dad, and maybe, just maybe, you'd be strong enough to accept the truth. Read the newspaper clipping attached to the back when you've finished my letter. You're a tough kid; I think you handle it now._

_My wife and I never had children, unfortunately, and to be honest Jackie, you're the closest to a son I ever had. Hell, I gave you the name 'Jack', thanks to the little Jack-in-the-Box I found in your backpack (I hope you don't think me selfish, but I kept it). For weeks after the feds "discovered" you, I felt terrible, as if I had just given up my own child. I wondered if it was the right thing to do._

_Obviously, I made the right choice. You've grown into a smart young man, and I'm grateful to have watched from the sidelines. I'm proud of you, Jack. _

_Just remember, kid, this isn't goodbye, technically. I'm pretty sure in heaven I'll still be making pizzas, and every Tuesday a dirty little kid will come bounding into my shop._

_Your friend,_

_Joe_

I couldn't cry. There weren't enough tears to cry; not for Joe, not for my parents, not for my life. I didn't read the newspaper clipping, not right away at least. But I knew, somehow, what had happened. All of a sudden memories flooded my brain in a terrifying sequence of events.

Once again I was five years old, lying in bed with the sheets yanked over my face. It was night, and a menacing storm crashed outside my bedroom window. I remember crying out for my mom, stopping when a bolt of lightening lit the room with an awesome blue hue. The door burst open, and in stepped a tall drunk swinging a bat in his hand, the same drunk in the picture. He stepped closer, and I could see that he was still half asleep, clad only in boxers and a length of string I guess he considered a night shirt.

"Listen to me, you annoying piece of shit," he said, shoving the bat underneath my nose. "I'm tired of your squalling, so shut the hell up and go to sleep." I nodded dumbly, but as he turned, I asked the stupidest question of my entire life. One of the last words I had ever spoken.

_Where's mommy?_

The man stopped in the middle of the door, one hand on the frame, the other gripping the bat. I could tell what was coming then, and I was grateful to have lost consciousness long before the bat connected with my skull.

And at the same time, in the real world, I, too, lost all consciousness. But not before I realized that, in the memory, my mom was watching from the doorway in horror when the man began to swing.

* * *

Once again, I came to slowly, allowing things to become fixated before trying to raise up. Ernie and Frank were gone, but they had neatly arranged my knapsack and it's belongings on a visitor's chair. They weren't bad guys after all. 

I was still exhausted to the core, and the painkillers were beginning to wear off, as there was a dull ache running up and down my arms. A quick scan of the room showed most of the machines that had been attached to unusual parts of my body had been removed. God have mercy on the poor sap that was given the task of inserting the catheter.

For the first time in days, I stood on the cold tile. Bones were creaking up and down my legs in a weird symphony of pops and snaps. I stood there for a few minutes just listening to my knee pop as if it had never popped before. I guess this was the painkiller's final hurrah—me standing in the middle of the room like a stoner trying to play Beethoven's 9th with an appendage.

It took more time than I would've liked to make it to the bathroom. The moment I got there I realized my face looked more like that of a werewolf than a human being. Dave's thick five-o'clock shadow was mirrored along my chin, and to be quite honest, it didn't look _that _bad.

A nurse walked in the moment I stepped out of the bathroom, and noticed I was rubbing the scratchy new outline of a beard. She mimed shaving her face and as an after thought, a quick wash.

I nodded and followed her down a bright hallway, careful to avoid the other crazies wandering about. Ken Kesey, wherever you are, man, eat your over-dosed heart out.

The bathing room was done up exactly the way books describe it: thousands of tiles that used only a square inch of space lined the walls, lights so dim that even a bat would have trouble maneuvering in, even tiled blocks that jutted out from the walls so patients can sit on. Luckily, all the nurses in charge of showering were female.

It only took a few minutes to scrub off all the grime that had been collecting on my body for the past few days. Shaving took a bit longer, as there was a nurse ordered to watch every move I made with the razor, which made me nervous as hell so my chin now looks like it's been through a meat grinder. Oh well; at least there was no aftershave (I shudder at the mere thought of it).

A different nurse took my back to my room. She stopped dead in her tracks upon entering, causing me to nearly trample her underfoot. I looked to see the cause and there, sitting on the bed, was Alice.

"I'm sorry; there's no visi-" the nurse began. I tapped her shoulder to get her attention, much to her annoyance. At that moment, I did something I hadn't done in over ten years.

"Ma!"

That was it. The first word I had said in so long. Sure, I was pointing and gesturing insanely, but I spoke! And she understood me! I finally told the world that Alice was my mom.

The nurse nodded and left, leaving Alice and I alone. I guess between a deaf and a mute, silence shouldn't be very awkward, but suddenly I couldn't stand it. I wanted to shout and sing and laugh and even dance if it was possible (but I have no rhythm, so I'll spare my audience the embarrassment). In any case, Alice began first.

"_The front desk said you were washing up, so I thought I'd just wait for you. I didn't look through your bag."_

Alice's signs were slow and deliberate, as if they were weighing her down in some way. She didn't look at me either. I practically levitated towards her and sat down on the bed, taking her hands into mine. We sat that way for a few minutes, just _being_ in each other's presence. Suddenly, a dam broke and Alice began to cry into my chest.

"Dak, Ah wud so wuree aboudyou!" Unlike Dave, Alice lost her hearing in her early teenage years, so most of what she said was audible, even though it was backed with pitiful sobs. She seldom said much, but when she did it was of major importance.

Dave, unfortunately, was born with only three percent of his hearing. His parents were total bastards and left him with an aunt or distant relative, and since then only see him once or twice a year (I've met Grampa Murray; Still waiting for him to kick the bucket). But Dave doesn't care, really. In fact, he's always cracking jokes about them. Those bastards.

I held onto Alice for over twenty minutes before she finally pulled away, wiping her eyes and trying to smile That's a wonderful thing about the Murray's; they try to make the best of a bad situation. She looked over my arms once or twice, tracing the thick lines of stitches with her finger. I grimaced when she stretched a bit of the skin, causing a little drop of blood to form. Alice stopped it with an old handkerchief, and began signing with only one hand.

"_So what's in the bag?" _Her gaze never left mine when she asked, instead concentrating on my face as if I was going to grow old within the next few minutes. I shrugged a bit, not wanting to detail the full account with only one hand.

When the bleeding finally stopped, I took a few steps toward the chair and brought the bag back with me. Alice waited patiently as I retrieved the only three objects I considered to be of any value. She looked at the picture, holding it lightly, afraid that it might crumble. Carefully, she put in on the bed next to her, along with the Peanuts blanket. She didn't bother to read the letter from Joe.

I flipped the page over and showed her the newspaper clip. Alice rested her head on my shoulder and read along with me:

**Two Dead; Child Missing**

Las Vegas, NV—The innocence of a tiny suburb on the west side of Las Vegas was shattered yesterday when the bodies of two people were discovered in their own home. Police confirm the victims-one man, one woman-were married, while a neighbor claims they had a son, whose whereabouts are unknown.

The bodies of the victims, whose names were Ronnie and Linda Jacobs, were discovered by a young boy who lives across the street. A statement made by the boy's mother said that she had sent the young man over to play with the missing child, but upon looking into the window of the house, saw the bodies on the floor. The boy ran back home to tell his mother, who then called the police.

Police entered the house after a minor scuffle with the door, and proceeded to call in a coroner and a team of investigators. As night began to fall, the crew of ten criminal experts announced that Ronnie Jacobs shot his wife in the chest, instantly killing her, and then turned the gun on himself. The bullet exited the back of his skull and left a hole in the house's rear window.

An APB has been put out for the location of the son.

For a moment, I thought my heart would stop. Beneath the article was a picture of me way back in the late 80's, the same picture I kept in my knapsack. Next to it were stats that even I didn't know.

Apparently, I was only 4'6", weighed approximately 55 pounds, had deep brown hair and blue eyes at the time of the murder. I was last seen in a parking lot playing kick-ball with a bunch of neighborhood kids. And above all that, there was my name, in thick, bold letters.

_Aaron Wesley Jacobs_.

I sat staring at the page unblinking, trying to piece everything together. My mother was brutally murdered by my father, who was probably going to kill me, too, if I had been there. But why? Did my mom screw around with somebody else? Did my dad lose his job? _Was it _my_ fault?_

At that moment, I felt no sympathy. Maybe they both deserved it. If Mom cared so much for me, why didn't she just leave and take me with her? If they knew raising a child would be difficult, why did they have me in the first place? There were too many questions that involved 'why', and no way in Hell to answer them. It was pointless to even ask.

Alice nearly jumped off the bed when Dave suddenly appeared in the doorway. His rather large body took up most of the frame, obscuring any view to the outside. In his hands was a tailored suit that looked to be more suitable on a funeral corpse than a living person. Maybe he was trying to tell me something.

For the next hour we tried to ignore the fact that I was probably going to be sentenced for life imprisonment, if not death. The three of us talked about anything and everything, though none of it was of any importance. And yet, I'll more than likely remember it for the rest of my life.

However short it may be.

* * *

Sorry that chapter took _forever_ to update. Unfortunately, from here on out, most the chapters are going to be extremely long-this one alone took over 8 pages on Word, compared to the normal 2 or 3 for the other chapters. Maybe this chapter will push the story of the 50 review mark :hint, hint:. That be cool. Anyways, until 13!


	14. 13: 10,000 people, maybe more

Chapter 13-10,000 people, maybe more…

* * *

_He was dreaming again._

_This time, he was surrounded by people, what seemed like thousands of people he never knew. His only source of comfort was his mother sitting next to him, unmoving, unfeeling, blankfaced and pale. They came in droves; eager to meet the son seldom knew he had, to look at the wife he often denied. _

_Even in death, Roy's presence dominated. Gil sat directly in front of his casket, trying hard not to spit on his dead father. Colleagues and close friends of Roy greeted him with their condolences, their words of advice, their fake sympathy. Every so often, his mother would ask how this man or that man knew Roy, but neither really cared. Roy's friends knew more about him than the family did._

_Gil tried desperately to work up some sort of emotion other than disgust. Not even shame could be felt. Only what felt like defiance. He had done it; Gil was free from his father's tyranny. But even then, his defiant feeling was limited. He felt no joy in his new freedom._

_Mother refused to tell him how exactly Roy had died. It mattered very little to Gil. All that mattered was that the bastard was finally dead. Never in all his life had Gil hated his father as much as this moment._

_He tried hard not to start laughing as friends of Roy recounted how great he was. Gil wanted to shout at their ignorance; they didn't know, they didn't have a clue what Roy really was like. A drunken, abusive, bum. Where is that in the obituary?_

* * *

Grissom awoke as a beam of light crept into his eye. He didn't want to wake up, nor did he want to go back to sleep. The dreams haunted him mercilessly, showing him only snippets of memories he didn't want to see, yet he felt like he had to. It was as if his brain was showing him the beginning of a movie, but refused to show the end.

The dreams hadn't really started until Jack's case came up. What was so special about this random kid that would cause long buried memories to resurface? There wasn't a connection that Grissom could see. Maybe the connection was with Jack. Now that Grissom was thinking about it, they had saved each other from their won personal demons; Grissom from blowing his brains out and Jack from bleeding to death. It would have been so easy though, just to pull the trigger and sleep for eternity. Just like his father.

But what were Jack's demons? Being taunted at school was a possibility, so was the simple fact of being deaf; the surgeon Grissom met with weeks ago to repair his hearing said many grow suicidal when they learn of permanent hearing loss. But Jack seemed too mellow about everything to do an act such as murder. There was something…_off_ about him.

He wasn't like any other deaf teen Grissom had met. Jack didn't need an interpreter in school, he didn't really need to pay attention to know what was going on. The deaf Grissom knew had to know everything, to the point that hearing people might see them as nosy. But Jack never pressed for information.

The trial wasn't until tomorrow, yet hope for Jack depleted by the minute. He turned 18 today, meaning he was going to be tried as in adult in court tomorrow. A sick feeling inched through Grissom's stomach, a feeling of failure, remorse, guilt; he couldn't name them all. Jack was only 18 years old and his life was about to be shut down entirely, a waste of human existence. In a morbidly sick way, Grissom almost hoped for some sort of death penalty, this way Jack would not spend the next seventy years tortured, abused, and forgotten by society.

Defeated, Grissom slumped in a kitchen chair, plucking at the gold clasp on the manila folder containing all of Jack's case material. Most of it was papers and pictures, very little tangible evidence. All the prints had been lifted, DNA run through the computer. Little else could be done but sift through the pictures again.

There was a large blown up photo of the boy Tyler's mutilated face in it's original state, every disgusting angle noted and accentuated. Another photo of the bungee chord used to strangle him. The syringe containing GHB, used as a quick sedative to incapacitate him. No fingerprints could be found on either object. The idea that Jack could have had an accomplice entered Grissom's mind; it was certainly possible. But what about the bat used to nearly dismember Tyler's face?

Grissom thumbed through other photos until he came to the one he wanted. It was a regulation metal baseball bat, red in color and deeply scratched from wear. No prints could be lifted from it; whoever used it scrubbed it clean with bleach. Another thought came to Grissom: there wasn't really any definitive evidence that pointed to Jack, just hearsay and assumptions. That meant that if there could be just one piece that steered away from Jack, he could go free.

An intense feeling of enlightenment spread through his veins, one Grissom had not felt in weeks. The veil clouding his mind lifted; thoughts came rushing at him freely. He looked at the photo of the bat again, thinking of what Jack said about his after-practice job of cleaning the equipment. _I cleaned everything like I usually do with this brush that's older than dirt; hardly any bristles on it, _Jack had said._ You'll have better luck with a paper towel than with that thing…_

So how could an old brush do the work of heavy duty bleach? Grissom desperately flipped through the photos as he searched for the one single photo he looked at just days before in Jack's hospital room, the photo of his coach's office.

Finding it, he took one last breath before scanning it with his eyes. Grissom's eyes flew to the sink, and his breath caught in his throat from what he saw:

A brand new brush, with every last bristle intact.

* * *

Jim Brass came close to dropping his morning coffee as Grissom flew through his office door, sagging and out of breath. He held a manila file, holding it up toe Brass's nose and breathlessly giving him an order in only two words.

"Warrants…now."

* * *

Wow, I am so sorry this took forever! Junior year was insanely difficult, I literally had no time to free write. I promise that there will be atleast 2-3 chapters, if not the ending. I may go back and edit the other chapters, I've been finding mistakes in them. Anyways, I apologize for making my small group of fans wait, I wrote this for you guys who pushed me! I'll see ya'll in the next chapter. 


	15. 14: People talking without speaking

Chapter 14-People talking without speaking…

* * *

I woke from a restless sleep the next morning excessively agitated, jumpy as hell, yet on some level extremely calm. A nurse helped me into the suite Dave left the day before, deliberately taking her time doing the powder blue tie. After she left, I lay on the bed until a guard came, not really savoring my last minutes of freedom but imagining myself in the same suit in my own casket.

For the second time in my life, I felt truly deaf that day. Nurses and guards spoke to me, but my brain refused to hear them. Jerry/Tom stopped in at one point just to shake my hand and give me more of his infamous words of wisdom, but I couldn't tell what he was saying. Instead I concentrated on my own thoughts, and how serious the situation suddenly became.

When the guard finally came to slap another set of cuffs on me, I didn't protest. Instead I held my bandaged wrists up and helped him with the chain that connected my wrists to my ankles. Few stopped to say goodbye to me, some just to look, but I didn't see them. My brain had put up a barrier against the world, the only way I knew how to deal with anything. Putting up barriers.

The suit itched when I moved. Hot Las Vegas sun caused my entire body to start sweating the moment I entered it. The scratchy handcuffs made mobility difficult as I was escorted to a waiting car with flashing lights on the top, familiar and almost comforting. Jerry/Tom kept his large hand on my shoulder, gripping gently but careful not to let go. My stomach slowly tied itself in knots, churning everything I felt together until my entire body had the same consistency as butter.

As the car sped along, I looked at the buildings of Las Vegas one last time. I noticed how lackluster the buildings were during the day, as if the city slept during sunlit hours. The sunlight itself was blinding, reflected off the Mirage like a demonic beacon, eager to ruin the lives of anyone who stepped through the door with more than ten dollars in their pocket. Christ, I'm pessimistic.

Every person the car passed I wanted to jump out of the car and scream at them, hoping that one of them might be convincing enough to get me off the hook. It was worth the shot at any rate. But like I said before, talking only seems to get me into trouble. In all honesty, I didn't feel like fighting it anymore. Yeah, it would suck to die, and don't get me wrong, I didn't want to, but I couldn't, or wouldn't, see a point to my life.

We pulled up to a courthouse packed with reporters and people just wanting to get a look of me. I couldn't blame them really; it's not every day you see a "disabled" death-row inductee. And I didn't know anybody was actually following my story. Maybe I had a deranged fan somewhere that had some weird obsession with me and didn't want to see my body swinging from the gallows. Or maybe I just have an overactive imagination. At least when some inmate named Bubba is ramming a pole up my ass I can imagine being somewhere else. It could come in handy.

The lawyer who I met at the hospital, Ernie Dover, opened my door for me. Frank, the Fred Flinstone-esque character was nowhere to be seen, so I assumed he was already inside. Every joint and muscle used to maneuver my legs became increasingly gelatinous with each faulty step I took. As much as I wanted to zone out and pretend to be somewhere else, I was stuck in the present. The terrifying, hopeless present.

Microphones and questions were thrown into my face, causing me to recoil into Jerry/Tom's armpit each time. He waved as many away as possible with only one hand, the other remained planted on my shoulder, keeping me beneath his wing while shoving me forward. Ernie kept shouting "no comment" rapid-fire as if they were bullets. Bullets probably intended for me eventually.

The courthouse doors opened and a cold, air-conditioned breeze hit me so fast I almost became sick. Empty halls lined in cheap linoleum and bleach white walls reminded me of the hospital, only without the acrid stench of sterilizer. The three of us sat on a bench while Ernie went over the court proceedings, aided by an interpreter who would translate for me in court.

I wanted to run so fast and so far away from that bench it was maddening. At that moment, I would give everything to _not_ be in that situation. Tyler was lucky; whoever killed him did it quickly. He wouldn't have to wait the rest of his life to die. In the words of John Lennon, happiness truly is a warm gun.

My case was called in. The large oak doors were opened for me, and once again Jerry/Tom's hand gripped my shoulder. Only this time I felt more like Jesus carrying a cross. And like Jesus, upon seeing my Ma in the courtroom my knees gave out and I stumbled onto the hard marble floor, nearly mixing my face into the various hues of grey and deep blue. Seeing her forlorn face broke my heart, reminding me yet again of how many families I've screwed over.

Mentally I was screaming out to her…_Mommy take me away from here…I didn't do anything wrong…I just want to go home…I promise to do anything you ask just take me home…Please, I'm not supposed to be here, I'm not even out of high school yet…Mom, please…_

I guess even the mind can be deaf sometimes. She stared at me as if it were the last time she'd ever see me without Plexiglas between us, unable to understand my mental pleas. Dave glanced, but he didn't meet my gaze.

Sitting behind the defendants table, I breathed heavily and slowly, forcing my blood to stop speeding through my body. The judge flipped through papers, Ernie dug through his briefcase; everybody was focused on anything and everything but me. For a few glorious seconds, I was invisible again.

A noise behind me caught my attention, but I didn't turn to acknowledge it. People began shouting all at once, yelling at me to move, but I didn't. I was frozen. Suddenly I was grabbed by the collar of my suit, violently dragged out of my chair and slammed into the table. A very large man leaned over me, his arm drawn back to swing at my face. He shouted at me, or rather to anyone listening.

"This bastard killed my son! I want him dead! This little prick murdered my son…" His voice trailed off, the shaking turned into tears, and guards began pulling him off me. My head was spinning from its meeting with the table.

Mr. Benson was lead to a seat at the back of the courtroom and placed next to a woman blotting her eyes with tissues. I'd never seen Tyler's parents before. The way he talked about them, it sounded as if they didn't care about him at all. He didn't know how lucky he had it.

The judge called the court into session before I was ready for it. He slammed the gavel once, calling everyone into order. I remained standing, confused as to what was going on. The judge motioned for me to sit.

An attorney stood and addressed the judge, asking to state his opening remarks. This sure as hell wasn't like Law and Order, or that one show about people who solve the crimes with the evidence. Wait a second, Fishy sort of looks like the guy on that show.

In my random daydreaming of television shows I probably would never see again, I missed the beginning of the plaintiff's speech. "…-son ever does to this young man? Teenage boys get into fights; after all, boys will be boys. Tyler was an angry person, that's true. But what did he do to deserve cold blooded murder? I ask you, the jury, to consider this as you listen to the evidence and in deliberation. Thank you, Your Honor."

The plaintiff, a tall, lanky man who looked to be about fifty sat down behind his desk alone, zip lock bags and papers strewn all over it. Ernie adjusted his tie and stood then, taking in a great breath much the same way Joe did when I was younger. I thought I heard defeat somewhere in there.

"Your Honor, in the short time I've spent with Jack, he's been nothing less than a good kid. He's comfortable to be around, humorous, smiles in any situation. He never once acted out of line, although communication was a bit frustrating at first. Acquaintances of his that I've spoken to only spoke good things about him, not one believing for a second that he could commit a crime this heinous. What happened to Tyler is an atrocious act, and I'm sure Jack feels terrible about what happened (_Not hardly, I thought_), but in my opinion Jack couldn't have done something like this. The world today may be as bad as people think, but I can assure you Jack is one of those rare good people that still exist. Thank you, Your Honor."

Ernie made me out to be a sociopathic serial killer.

Thanks Ernie. Thank you and all your wasted years of law school.

I sank lower in my seat, scratching at the tape holding my bandages in place. My mental barriers and ability to block out anything were failing; I couldn't escape the current situation. And it was scary.

The judge asked for the first witnesses to be questioned. My interpreter was getting irritated by my lack of attention, so she slammed some papers in front of my face, pulling my 

attention back to her. It made my head hurt, reminiscent of the shaking I received before everything began.

My baseball coach was called up first. It was a strange feeling seeing him without the familiar baseball cap and cleats on. The first to question was the plaintiff, Mr. Reely.

"Thank you for joining us today, Mr. Putnan. I know how hard it must be for the team to lose a player like Tyler," he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. I'll bet Reely never even got to know Tyler, and hardly met with his parents. Coach nodded, not making a sound, which Reely continued.

"Could you tell us a little bit about Tyler and Jack please, Mr. Putnan?"

Coach squirmed in the chair a bit, straightening his slacks and cracking his knuckles. "They weren't exactly buddies, ya know," he began. "They got into some squabbles but they pretty much left each other alone. Jack and I never had much to say to each other. He taught the team some of them hand motions for our plays." That's what I liked about Coach; he kept everything short and to the point.

"What about Tyler, Mr. Putnan?" God, I hated the way Reely ended everything with _Mr. Putnan_, as if he were accusing Coach. "What's there to say? Tyler was tough to deal with, he had his problems, and as long as he wasn't taking it out on the other boys I didn't bother to ask," Coach responded. Wahoo, point for my case. Coach, if I get out of here, I'm going to kiss the socks you wear, dude.

Reely sat down in his chair, handing the questions over to Ernie. Ernie adjusted his tie for the _n_th time and stood up. "I have only a few questions, Your Honor. Jeff (_Coach's first name_), did Jack and Tyler ever get into a fist fight?" Ernie asked, as delicate as possible. Coach nodded.

"Like I said, they had their moments. Tyler liked to throw sliders at him; Jack always had trouble hitting those. And he quick-pitched Jack a few times. Tyler called him names behind his back, and got him with a few line drives. I tried to stop it when I could but with a large team it's hard to watch everybody at once." Coach was talking as if I were only a memory. He smiled pitifully, wanting to help more but not knowing how.

Coach was allowed to step down. I was starting to get really pissed off at Ernie; what the hell is one question going to prove? Other than my coach's few words, nothing was helping me out at all.

Brian was the next one called. He looked so small sitting in the box; any other person would think he was just a child. Squirming in his seat, he folded his hands nervously and placed them in his lap.

This time, Ernie was first to question. "Brian, you're free to say what you like here; no one is going to hold it against you. Understand?" Brian nodded. "Good, let's get started. Are you and Jack friends at all?"

Brian nodded again, a bit more vigorously. "He's very nice to me. I feel bad for him."

"What about you and Tyler?"

"I don't like Tyler at all. He made fun of me all the time, and he said Jack was my boyfriend a lot."

Wow, that was a new one on me. I don't remember Tyler ever saying anything like that to me. Ernie kept plowing through his questions.

"Did you ever say anything back to him, Brian?"

Brian lowered his head again, like he did at practice when people made fun of him. "I tried to sometimes," he said. "They would all laugh at me when I did though." Anger flooded his voice unexpectedly. The rest of the court was hooked.

Ernie sat back down without any hint that he was going to. My frustration with him was getting close to its peak. Reely stood up and placed both his hands on his desk. "No questions, Your Honor," he stated, not bothering to look up. That was it? Just a few questions and that's supposed to decide everything? Well Christ, I could pull of this lawyer gig if that's all it took.

Looking at Reely and his expensive suit, I failed to notice Ernie tapping at my shoulder. It was my turn. Suddenly everything became more than too real. My senses were all on high alert, I couldn't escape in any way, and this was it. This was my last chance.

* * *

Well, that was 14. Three more to go (and I have them finished already, so woohoo). I hope you guys enjoy the ending!


	16. 15: People hearing without listening

Chapter 15-People hearing without listening…

* * *

I crept into the box. Once locked, the handcuffs were removed less than gently. The judge read my name and the name of my interpreter, who would speak for me. Even if I could speak, I don't know how well I would do right about now. Reely stood before Ernie could adjust his tie for the _n_th + 1 time.

"Jack, I'd like you to take a look at this picture. Let the record show that the defendant was shown article A." He held a picture up to me, and I didn't have to be the great Holmes to figure out what it was. Tyler's face was nearly hacked off, his features weren't where they should have been, and he looked more like an alien than a human being. "Does this look familiar?" I shook my head. Okay, so that wasn't too bad, even though the photo made me want to hurl.

"Now Jack, everybody knows Tyler was quite mean to you. Did you ever fight back?"

_Only when he threw stuff at me. I couldn't see his lips most of the time so I ignored him._

"Did you ever think about seriously hurting him?"

God, I wanted to tell him how many times I felt like chucking Tyler into a wood chipper. But that wouldn't help me out here. And the rate it was going, I could use all the help I could get.

_Sometimes. But I never did any of it. Everybody thinks things like that at least once in their lifetime. _That wasn't convincing at all, even for me. Maybe it's just lunatic psychopaths who think that. And if I think that, then I must be a lunatic psychopath. Well, shit.

"Jack, can I see your arms?" I hesitated a moment, then held my arms out. He motioned for me to turn them over, then to pull my sleeves up. I did so reluctantly.

"Let the record show defendant is displaying marks from an attempted suicide. Ladies and gentlemen, a few days ago, Jack tried to commit suicide in his temporary holding cell. For all those who have known someone who has attempted or even thought of suicide, it is often out of guilt or some sort of mental instability. I am no psychiatrist, but it is clear Jack has repressed emotions of some kind that manifests themselves in destructive and unstable ways. Clearly it is-"

Ernie stood up suddenly and nearly threw his chair back, very dramatic court room style. "Objection!" he shouted. "Your Honor, he is planting ideas into their heads without proof of any kind."

The judge nodded. "Sustained-counsel, unless there is documentation that Mr. Murray indeed suffers from mental psychosis I cannot allow you to proceed with this line of questioning."

Wahoo! Go Ernie, go Ernie. So maybe he isn't all that bad. I certainly wouldn't have caught that. Hell I would've agreed with him had I been in the jurors chair.

Well, hold up. If that's the case, then I can't claim lunacy or anything like that. Goddamit!

Reely obviously wasn't happy with having his line thrown out of wack. I had to try hard to keep from smiling. This was a small glimmer of hope, miniscule maybe, but it was hope none the less.

"Alright then. Jack, I'd like for you to tell me about school. What was school like for you, being deaf and all?"

_School was school. I tried to stay out of everybody's way. Most of the other kids didn't mind me very much, some of the girls thought I was cute and I liked that, but it was more like a sick puppy kind of cute. My classes weren't too bad._

"Did Tyler bother you much during school?"

_Not really. I sit in the front for most of my classes and he sits in the back. He pulled a lot of pranks on me outside of school, that's where I had the most problems. _

"Such as?"

_He filled my batting helmet with rocks and sand a few times, and then poured hot sauce on my head so it would sting more. He's stolen the chain on my bike more times than I remember. Once he jammed my locker with glue he uses in woodshop; well, my locker neighbor told me it was him. Then he made fun of my family because we don't have a car and he does. Every day there was a new sign on my locker and-"_

"Alright Mr. Murray, that's enough."

But it wasn't. I wanted to tell them every single microscopic evil thing that bastard ever did to me.

_My cleats always had lizards or tacks in them. I had bruises up and down my arms each afternoon from where he threw pitches at me. The library's window that was broken last year? I saw him do it, but he said he would bust out every window in our apartment if I-_

The judge banged his gavel again. And I kept going.

_-told anybody about it. Brian's glasses weren't broken every week because he tripped or some other lame excuse. Tyler broke them. Tyler always did everything and nobody would stand up and challenge it._

"Mr. Murray you will stop right now or I'll throw this case out and have you arrested on charges of murder, do you understand me?" the Judge shouted. I waited for the interpreter to finish before lowering my hands. Mr. Reely was asked to continue.

He stood and gathered his papers together, silent. The adrenaline rush I was still feeling made me want to dive out of the chair at him then beat him senseless with his own briefcase, but the white-knuckle grip I had on the chair kept me in my place. If I was going down, then it wouldn't be without a fight.

Reely sat back down. "No more questions, your honor." If I was to start another hit list (the first died with Tyler because he was the only one on it), Reely would definitely be at the top.

Ernie stood back up again and this time simply folded his hands. "Now Jack, I would like to ask you a very painful question. Do you know who your mother is?"

I pointed to Alice.

"No Jack, I mean your birth mother."

His question came from the left baseline. What the hell did that have to do with anything? I held up the sign for 'small'.

"A little bit? (_Good job, Ernie_) What do you remember about her, Jack?"

This really was a painful question, painful enough to make my head start pounding again, like it was in the interrogation room. I closed my eyes and tried to separate the painful memories from the physical pain.

_I remember that she was really pretty, and she used to hold me a lot, and tell me that she loved me. When I think about her I think about Alice. Then I remember that she isn't there anymore, and I'm with somebody else, who picked up the phone and started crying and I knew it was about my mom, so I ran as fast as I could because I didn't want to know what the other person said on the phone._

"What about your birth father?"

_He hurt us, I think. The only memory I have of him was with a bat, and he hit me with it. _

"Thank you, Jack. Your honor I have no further questions."

What?! That was it?! Ernie you're gonna be second on my list, right after Reely. I guarantee it, when I get out of here you'll be six feet under. If I get out of here.

The gavel was banged once again, and I was asked to sit down. No further questions, do not pass go, do not collect another 200 years to live. Just sit. He then asked for closing remarks. Ernie was asked to go first.

"Members of the jury, the comments you've heard today do not necessarily reflect the way people feel in normal circumstances. I ask you to put yourself in Jack's situation: he's young, not yet out of high school, and he's already being tried for a crime so awful he may never in fact be able to grow up normally again. Ladies and gentlemen, this young man raised himself from the age of six to eight, all on his own, coming from an abusive and deadly family. It is your responsibility, members of the jury, to see to it that Jack will be deemed innocent and sent home to a _loving_ family, and to friends who care about him. Thank you, your honor."

All these pleasantries were making me sick. That or the lack of food I'd not eaten in well over 24 hours. Reely slinked his way up to the middle of the courtroom.

"Members of the jury, I'm going to keep this as brief as possible. When you go home to your wives, husbands, children, your _families_, I ask you to please wonder what it would feel like to lose one of your children or a loved one, and think of the Benton's. Their only son, their only _child_, is gone because of that young man sitting there. It is my sincerest wish that you think him guilty, so that your decision puts him behind bars, and protects other children like Tyler. Thank you, your honor."

His speech even had _me_ engrossed. If this was that one show, with the group of people who find all the evidence and solve the case with it, I would probably vote for him. Then I remembered I was the one being put on trial.

The jury was ushered into an adjacent room to deliberate. The instant the door closed, everyone began talking at once. I turned around to face Alice and Dave. They were a mess.

_"We love you, you know that, right?" Dave asked. I nodded. "Your mother and I love you so much Jack we can't explain it. We know you didn't do this. Whatever happens, son, we'll still love you no matter what. There's nothing in the entire world that you could do to make us stop."_

_The tears were hot as they rolled down my chin. Dave was going to say more, but Alice cut him off._

_"Jack, tell me you didn't do this and I will believe you."_

_"I didn't do any of it, Mom. People at school blame me for stuff all the time; I was probably just the first person they thought of. Mom, I want to go home."_

_She looked away and buried her face in Dave's shoulder. He continued signing from that awkward position._

_"Remember your old racecar? We called it the "Mach 5.25". When you have kids of your own in a few years, we'll build another just like it. You're going to go home with us tonight, son. I don't know what I'd do without you."_

_"What did you do before I got there?"_

_"We fought. I'm sterile, Jack, I was never able to provide children. But you might as well be my own. No one can ever say otherwise. You've only lived with us for five years but it feels like you've been a part of us for a lifetime. I can't imagine having any other kid bu-"_

The deliberation room door swung open, silencing everyone. I turned around slowly and faced their pitied looks, some with tears in their eyes. A few refused to meet my stare. That could only mean something bad was about to happen. I looked to the ground and let the tears fall, crashing to the floor.

"Has the jury decided on a verdict?" the Judge asked slowly. Each juror looked to another, for what reason I could never tell. Eventually all eyes fell to the juror sitting at the farthest left corner. She stood with a paper in her hands, shaking from the nerves.

"We, the jury, find Jack Randall Murray," she coughed once to clear her throat. Then began again.

"We the jury find Jack Randall Murray guilty of all charges of murder in-" Her voice began to crack. "Murder in the first degree."

I heard Alice begin to cry loudly behind me. I closed my eyes one final time to try and dream away what was happening. I felt dizzy, like I was going to throw up. My life was truly and irreversibly over. My life was a waste of human existence, and a lie at that. This would be a perfect opportunity to tell the truth now though, what difference would it make? My throat began working its way into words, trying to form some sort of noise. I was ready to start shouting and screaming my head off, that it was all a lie, but the Judge cut me off.

"Has the jury reached a sen-"

And then the doors exploded.

* * *

Mwahaha did anybody catch my wicked-awesome foreshadowing there? Up next, the final chapter...


	17. 16: People writing songs that voices

Chapter 16-People writing songs that voices never shared…

* * *

Grissom nearly fell to the floor from fatigue, sweat nearly pouring down his face. He struggled for air, but in his hand he held a paper up for all to see.

"What is the meaning of this!" the Judge shouted at him. Grissom stumbled to the bench, choking out as many words as possible.

"Your honor…I have evidence…Jack is completely innocent…"

He turned around to Jack, grinning as best he could but still heaving. Jack's face registered only confusion, but somewhere in his eyes, a mixture of gratuity and intense relief.

The Judge snatched at the paper Grissom held. There was an office picture, with a circle drawn on it to emphasize a certain object (a scrub brush), and typed underneath that was the results of a DNA and fingerprint test. Nowhere on the page was Jack's name mentioned. But there was a name.

"Mr. Grissom, do you understand the implications you've brought forward?"

"I do, sir," Grissom began. "My team and I never found any evidence suggesting Jack-"

"Ure awna!"

The courtroom went dead silent as each person searched for the source of the foreign noise. Jack stood in his spot, as tall as possible but with his eyes closed shut. He began to work his throat, pulling with every ounce of strength for a batch of words somewhere inside of him.

"Ure awna…Ah neber ded it. No wan ever astcked if ah did it." His speech become more clear as he went on. "Pleazir, ah jusdt wahnt to go home." The Judge looked at him in pure disbelief.

"Were you even present at the time of the murder, Mr. Murray?" he asked.

The interpreter tried to shake Jack, to force him to open his eyes, but Jack's eyes remained tightly closed as he shook his head, tears draining from the sides of his eyes while he gently nudged his interpreter away.

"No sir, I dint eben hear aboudt it undil Mawnday after."

Grissom's stomach did a cartwheel. Jack didn't look at anyone while he spoke-he didn't read anyone's lips, he didn't watch the interpreter. Suddenly all the instances replayed in Grissom's mind in which Jack did something only a hearing person would do. There was no interpreter for him in school, yet he kept above average grades. His eyes often lingered while someone spoke, yet he was able to understand the entire conversation. Grissom moved closer to him noisily and called his name. "Jack?"

The younger man backed away, his eyes still shut tight, but his face pointed in an upward direction.

"No, Misher Grishom. I herd ebrything, ah aways heard. I was bretending."

Grissom stood in front of him and tapped his shoulder. Slowly, Jack opened his eyes again and tried to meet Grissom's gaze, instead looking at the floor. Grissom was unsure how to feel; a mixture of emotions churned in his chest. He felt pity, a small amount of anger, but at the same time a feeling of accomplishment. Despite the fact that Jack had been lying to him, Grissom was unable to feel any sort of grudge against the boy for it. He spoke quietly, almost at a whisper.

"You're not deaf, Jack?"

He shook his head in the negative.

"You've heard every word I've ever said to you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Jack, would you do me favor? I want you to read out the name at the bottom of this paper."

Grissom held the paper in Jack's line of vision. Jack looked up at him quickly, terrified and pleading not to. This continued for a moment, until the Judge ordered the name to be read. Jack looked behind him, mouthing the word "sorry" as best he could. The person's face became red hot with anger. Jack began shaking his head in disbelief.

"Bwien, how cud you?"

Brian then scrambled to be free from his seat, climbing over top the guard rail but pulled back by his neighbors. A scuffle ensued between Brian and a number of guards as he struggled to run from those holding him down. Jack sank into his seat, his hands shaking and his breathing rapid. Grissom motioned to his parents.

His father, David, ran to his side while his mother remained standing in her place. Grissom had never actually met Jack's parents, but he had seen them once. The three of them could not look any more different, but somehow they seemed to connect. At this moment though, something was very wrong.

David held is son's hands, massaging them gently to stop their shaking. He looked to his wife and nodded his head, asking her to join him at his side, but she remained transfixed in her spot. As much as Grissom didn't want to, he watched as their heated conversation began.

_Get over here now, Alice,_ David signed, half pleading.

_I can't, Dave. That's not my son._

Jack turned around to see what she was saying, but David pulled him back.

_He's coming home with us. Now. _

Alice told him to stop with such force her ring fell off. _That's not my Jack. That boy is nothing but a lie. He's lied to us all these years, David. We took him in as our son and he lied. I don't know him, I've never known him, and I don't want a stranger in my house._

A guard walked up to Jack and relayed the Judge's permission for him to leave. Jack stood slowly, leaning on Dave for support. Grissom waved his hand in front of David's face, telling Jack's father that he would be more than glad to drive the family home. He then stood next to Jack, holding his forearm with one hand and shoving his way through hordes of people with the other. Alice followed slowly behind them.

They reached the hallway with little resistence. Diminishing sun tossed golden rays onto the floor through the glass doors, forcing Grissom to shield his eyes against them. Dave then stopped and forced Jack to look at him before they faced the massive crowd of reporters outside.

_Jack, I still love you, alright? You know that, don't you?_

Jack began signing again awkwardly, as if it were a foreign language.

_I'm so sorry, Dad. I should have told you sooner but I-_

_You would have told us when you were ready to. When we get home, we're going to talk about this. But right now I don't want you to worry about anything. We'll be fine, son. Nothing is going to change between us. Except now you'll be making all of our phone calls._

Dave smiled sadly at his own joke, hugging his son as tight as he could. They were nearly the same height, Dave only slightly taller. At that moment though, to Grissom, Jack looked all of two feet tall.

Over Jack's shoulder, Dave nodded to Grissom. The four then continued their journey to the outside, squinting from the glare. Noise from reporters and the snapping of cameras could already be heard from their side.

When the doors opened, the rush of people instantly crowded around them. They shouted questions as loud as they could, the noise building and running together into a single hellacious voice that caused Grissom's ears to ring. He shoved as many reporters out of the way as possible as Dave reached back to grab Alice's hand. Together they waded through the mass of people, eventually making it to an expanse of empty space in which they could breath.

And taking one last breath, Jack began to run. And he never looked back.

* * *

And that's the end. Sort of. There's a prologue. I want to thank everybody who stuck with me through the entirety of the story. I especially want to thank those who emailed me and pestered me to finish writing this-without you guys, there would never have been an ending.


	18. Epilogue: No one dared disturb the sound

Epilogue-And no one dared disturb the sound of silence…

* * *

A nurse handed the tiny screaming bundle to his father, tucking in the last fold around the baby's feet. The younger man looked at his son's wrinkled face, bouncing up and down slightly to soothe him. The same nurse touched his shoulder and spoke slowly, noting the skin-tone hearing aids behind his ears.

"What's his name going to be?"

The man beamed at her, ever the proud new father. "Sean," he announced, his unusual voice difficult for her to understand. She then held up a birth certificate and passed the baby over to its mother.

He filled it out quickly, then began working on another paper, this time written in the form of a letter:

_Dear dad (aka grandpa),_

_The baby is here finally!! He's absolutely beautiful, I couldn't have asked for anything else. You and mom should really come see him; the wife is still anxious to meet you and she keeps nagging at me to bring you guys up. I miss you guys so much._

_Anyways, he was born at 2:39 in the afternoon on October 9__th__. Isn't that awesome?! He's 7lbs. 11 oz (he's a big boy already), and 21 inches long. I was wanting to name him John but Wifey said she liked Sean better, so his name is Sean. Sean Lennon Murray._

_Write me back as soon as you can and let me know when you want to come see him. I'll be there as soon as I get your letter. Congrats, gramps!_

_Love always,_

_J._

The young man then went to his wife's side and stroked her dark hair. She yawned deeply, exhausted from the day's events and eager to sleep. She handed their son back to his father and turned to her side, dimming the lights.

He went over to the window then, to see his baby's face in better light. The little boy was wide awake, squinting his dark eyes as he took stock of his surroundings, but ultimately focusing on the man holding him. The man then cuddled him close and began speaking to him, but was unsure of what to say.

"Hey there, little buddy. Erm, I'm your daddy, if you haven't guessed. I'm the crazy guy who's been talking to you on the other side for the last six months. Welcome to the world and everything. It's big and it's scary but I'm going to protect you from it, because I'm your daddy and I love you, and that's even bigger than the big scary world. If you didn't hear earlier your name is Sean. I wanted to name you John but your mama said no. I'm going to teach you who John Lennon is when we get home, by the way."

The baby blinked at him and yawned.

"How about I tell you a story? How does that sound? Well, let me start off by telling you who I am. People call me Jack. Just Jack. I didn't think of it, your granny and grandpa didn't think of it, it just sort of happened…"

* * *

Unless you're an oblivious person, it's obvious there's going to be a sequel. Maybe I can have the next one finished by the time I graduate from college (SoS I began as a freshman and I'm going to graduate as a senior this year). It's already half-way written though, just gotta find the time to write it up. I hope you guys have enjoyed this story as much as I have enjoyed writing it. Feel free to send me messages, I always appreciate those. Hasta luego guys!


	19. Extras

Extras

I've decided that for the stories that I finish, I'm going to write up a little "extras" page, similar to the extras on a DVD. These are just answers to some questions people have asked me about the story throughout its writing process.

Q: Is there a sequel?

A: Of course, and it stars everybody's favorite CSI team. Only this time Jack is much older, a daddy x2, and married. Bad things happen to the little ones though, you'll just have to wait and see…

* * *

Q: Where did "Jack" come from?

A: The idea came from a movie called "What the Deaf Man Heard." After the initial prologue though, the similarities diminished and he became my own character. I forgot where the _name_ came from. I also tried a stint at a blind character once when the story was still a baby, but that somehow molded into my Sherlock Holmes story.

* * *

Q: How long did it take to write each chapter?

A: Anywhere from a few hours to a few weeks.

* * *

Q: Which is your favorite?

A: Mine would have to be chapter fourteen (People talking without speaking). I read over it again and I only noted one mistake, the characterization was funny; I'm just pleased with that one.

* * *

Q: Where did you get the jokes from?

A: I made them up as I was writing. Honestly, I'm horrible at jokes unless it's just spur of the moment humor, so basically whatever made me laugh at the time went in. Since I started this as a freshman in high school (I'm now a freshman in college), I've noticed the humor is extremely juvenile, but you can see it mature as the story goes on.

* * *

Q: You do realize how improbable most of the stuff in your story is, right?

A: Yes, Debbie Downer. But at the same time, there's something called 'suspension of disbelief.' Look into it.

* * *

Q: Are there any "deleted scenes?"

A: Since it's been a while since I've toyed with this one, it's hard to remember it all. I do remember that originally the prologue picked up right as Jack ran off, but I scratched that and added it to the sequel. I believe I added another scene with Roy that was cut, and many of the funnier chapters started out extremely depressing. The Murrays also had a cat at one point, but instead I put the kitty in the Sherlock Holmes story as well.

* * *

Q: Can you give us a basic idea of the sequel?

A: Well, it's set about 6-8 years later (this story is set in 2001), and if you could guess from the epilogue, Jack is married with a little one. In the second one, Tara (the wife) is pregnant again, Jack meets up with his parents once more, and hell breaks loose. Jack goes back to Vegas for some sort of conference and meets the team again, and suddenly the legitimacy of Sean (the first baby) is questioned. Then Sean goes missing…That's all I can tell you!

* * *

Q: Anything else you can think of?

A: Yeah, I want to thank the people who told me to update constantly. I've never actually finished one of my stories, and even though it took forever, it somehow got done. Thank you _so_ much guys; you really mean a lot to me. Also! WITH PERMISSION I'm going to allow people to borrow Jack for their own stories. BUT YOU MUST ASK ME FIRST! I will help write if need be, and help with characterization and whatnot. That's about all I got-have a nice day!


End file.
